Spellbound (clean edit)
by Dr. Von
Summary: With no first name, lineage, or living relatives, Shadowsong's life is shrouded in mystery until, on her first solo mission, she gets kidnapped by Malistaire, who needs a virtuous person's soul to break the curse of living death. But the plan soon reaches new and terrifying heights, and Shadowsong is about to discover a truth stranger than she ever could have imagined.
1. nightly walks

**_I feel so alone, _**  
**_trapped inside this world-_**  
**_come and take me home._**

_(_only fate remains, _nightly walks_)

~

Night blanketed the ground in black, a thin veil of stars barely illuminating the pathway to Headmaster Ambrose's office— all was still, except for a single, shadowy figure that tiptoed across the grounds. And that was just how she liked it.

The girl known only as Shadowsong slipped quietly through the crisp evening air— she darted in and out of the shadows as swiftly as a thief in the night as dusk descended upon the grounds. She had grown accustomed to such loneliness over the years and, in fact, preferred to travel only by nightfall—a true spy left no clue of her presence, and companions were but an inconvenience. She didn't have the time or patience to cover up another person's tracks, or worry about saving anyone's skin, but her own. She needed to get to Alhazred and the Order, and nothing would stand in her way. At her request, he'd gone ahead of her, maintaining that his offer to protect her was still open, but Shadowsong didn't need protection from anything… or any_one_.

As a baby, she had miraculously cheated death when a worldwide massacre left her orphaned. Any relatives she'd had were either killed instantly or tortured to death by Krokopatra's horde of mindless Nirini brutes that still ravaged the depths of Krokotopia's caves daily, in search of fresh blood, and all birth records for the area had been destroyed. Needless to say, she had no first name, age, or birthdate, and no idea who her parents were— no one else had survived, so the entirety of her life was shrouded in mystery to this day.

The only thing certain in her life was her master, Alhazred— a great and powerful sorcerer, he had gone into hiding during the war and formed a resistance: the Order of the Fang. When the war had ended, he'd taken his ragtag band of wizards through the tombs to look for survivors, only to find that there were none— except for Shadowsong, then an infant, who'd been found swaddled only in a moth-eaten blanket and half-starved to death. Suspecting that she'd been left there by a well-meaning relative, who'd been killed before he was able to return, Alhazred had taken her back to the Order's secret headquarters and raised her as his own child.

Stealthily, she unlocked the door and glided through the dimly-lit hallway, almost catlike. She could hear murmurs of fear and concern as the headmaster— or Merle, as she'd come to know him— called the meeting to order. It was the reason she'd come, but group protocol stated clearly that an apprentice was never to interrupt her superiors; therefore, she'd have to wait for the right moment to present her ideas.

She parked her broom in the hall closet and propped herself up against the doorframe to listen better. The rest of the Order— Alhazred, General Khaba, and the Ravenwood professors— all sat in a semicircle and listened as Merle told them of the troubles in Wizard City: rogue Fire Elves, undead scarecrows, and an evil so dark and vile that it defied description.

"Welcome," he began, glancing around at his comrades' worried faces. "I suppose you all know why I've called you here— the Necromaster has returned to the Spiral."

About a minute of silence passed, as Merle allowed his colleagues to process the information he'd just given them. "As some of you may recall, he continued, nervously eyeing a grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. "Malistaire Drake was once one of my best students— highly intelligent, and a genius in his own right. His young lady-friend, Sylvia Lifemender, was also one of the brightest— they always pushed each other to new levels of greatness, and I had such high hopes for them both. But then, Sylvia died, and something went terribly wrong…"

He sighed mournfully, then cleared his throat. "Malistaire and Sylvia were soulmates," he went on. "In fact, they were once the most-loyal and respected members of this very group. But he was never the same after her passing and, within the year, he'd been excommunicated from the Order for treason— he betrayed us to the sorceress Morganthe, who told him that _we_ killed Sylvia and that she could revive her, in exchange for his loyalty. She bestowed upon him the curse of undeath— the soul dies, but its body lives on, and it's a terrible affliction, unparalleled by any earthly torment. Needless to say, he's out for blood— the Spiral Geographic Society has deemed him an immediate threat to Wizard City, and we've been tasked with bringing about his downfall, as quickly as possible."

A few gasps here and there— a frustrated sigh. But Shadowsong simply leaned closer and hung on every word. If she was going to help vanquish evil, she needed to know exactly what she was up against— her opponent's strengths and weaknesses, and how to best exploit them for universal gain. She opened her mouth to speak, but Professor Drake— Malistaire's twin brother, Cyrus— beat her to it.

"Now, hold on just a minute, old man," he began, sweat pouring down in buckets from the top of his bald head. "One doesn't simply _bring about the downfall_ of a man possessed, my liege. My brother is very dangerous— he'll kill us all, or die trying, if we set foot near Castle Dragonspyre. The only way to get to him is to send in someone whose presence won't attract attention, and the best man for the job is… a woman, specifically _her_."

He turned and pointed at Shadowsong, who was still standing in the doorway and had, up to this point, gone completely unnoticed. All nine heads swivelled in her direction— some nodded in agreement, but Alhazred scowled and quickly leapt to his feet. "No," he stated adamantly. "I won't have you sending my apprentice to her death, Cyrus— in fact, I expressly forbid it, and will volunteer to go in her place. I am an old man, with only hazy memories of my former life and glory… So, if anyone's life deserves a place in Fate's mighty hands, then let it be mine, or so help me."

Almost instantly, a fight broke out. Cyrus and Alhazred continued bickering among themselves, and the other members began shouting and hurling curses at one another; Merle, however, remained completely composed, turning to Shadowsong as everyone else continued arguing.

"Ah, Wizard Shadowsong," he greeted her calmly, offering her a seat and paying no attention to the now-heated debate. "Welcome, my dear— we've been expecting you. How rude of me, to start the meeting without you. Can I get you something to drink— a cup of Dalia's Flaming Soup to warm your bones, or a hot glass of lemon tea, perhaps?"

She hadn't eaten since leaving Krokotopia the night before, and thus gratefully accepted the offer. Hunger was a dangerous affliction, one that distorted the senses and made it all but impossible to focus in combat— soldiers required sustenance, and she had come to fight, meaning that she would need food in order to focus.

By the time Merle was finished preparing and had brought the meal— the Flaming Soup, a plate of his special Golden Squash Surprise, and a freshly-brewed pot of lemon tea— to her place, things had calmed down a little and the members of the Order were behaving like civilized adults once more. "So," he finally addressed her, hushing the others with a stern, but relaxed, look. "Since it's your fate that ultimately hangs in the balance, Wizard Shadowsong, what are _your_ thoughts on all of this?"

In response, she gave a slight grin and shook her head. "Well," she answered, drawing confused looks from both Alhazred and Cyrus as she tossed her dark hair. "As you all know, I love a good fight. Therefore, I've no problem going in— that is, if that is what you all wish of me."

Cyrus nodded at her and turned to smirk at Alhazred, who narrowed his eyes. "I can't allow this," he repeated, gazing imploringly at Merle. "The final decision is in your hands, my dear, but you must understand that this is no ordinary fight— this is not simply an uprising, but an evil that makes the earth itself tremble with terror and will strike fear into many hearts, the Spiral over. You're very brave, my dear, and very powerful, but this mission is time-sensitive, and will require a great deal of planning and experience. Though you are wise beyond your years, child, you won't get very far with just your sword."

"Then I'll train her myself," Cyrus piped up. "Her combined beauty, intelligence, and formidable survival skills make her the deadliest weapon in our cache, and I'll gladly oversee every detail of her coaching myself, should she wish to pursue it. Without her, we don't stand a chance against my brother, or the spectral army he's amassed."

Alhazred pursed his scaly lips and frowned again, adjusting the fez atop his head. "That may be so," he replied cautiously. "My apprentice is indeed a wise woman, and very beautiful. But that won't stop Malistaire from turning her into a soulless slave, just like every other unfortunate victim to pass through those doors. No one ever comes out of there alive, Cyrus, and it is for that reason that I cannot and will not agree to this."

At his words, the meeting once again began to descend into a brawl. Merle glanced helplessly at Shadowsong, whose green eyes flickered as she shrugged back at him uncertainly. "I'll do it," she announced loudly, causing the others to stop arguing and stare at her in a mix of shock and dismay. "No disrespect, Master Alhazred, but Cyrus is correct— I _am _the best, and possibly only, chance we have. No sense in you lot risking your lives."

"Very well," Alhazred agreed, the crinkly corners of his mouth dipping downward into a sad arch. "If you must go, child, then go— just know that there is no margin for error, and don't you ever forget that. Even smart wizards like you make mistakes, and I don't want you to get hurt… or worse."

He turned to Cyrus. "You win this time," he sighed resignedly. "You have my blessing, _on one condition_— anything your brother does to her, I'll do to _you_, a thousand times over."

"No need to be so overprotective, old man— your apprentice's life is in the safest of hands, and I'll teach her everything she'll need to get out of there in one piece. As for you, Wizard Shadowsong, meet me in the Arena when you're finished your supper; I'm sure you'll be a most-worthy adversary."

Shadowsong nodded and, like any good apprentice, did exactly as she was told. As the rest of the Order sat down to read or play cards, she finished the last bite of supper and cleared her plate before heading off to the Arena to begin her training.


	2. cursed

_down falls the light as they rise from the sea_;  
_in comes the night- give your soul, pay your fee_.  
_living a curse, they were born by their sins_-  
_soon, life and death will become evil twins_.

(xandria, _cursed_)

The Arena was a small, dimly-lit building just inside Unicorn Way. It had once been home to several grand tournaments, including the Spiral Cup, but its glory days had ended when the area had been overrun by the undead army— the residents responsible for its upkeep had fled the area, and the entire building had fallen into a state of disrepair. There had been talk of tearing it down, but the Spiral Geographic Society had declared it a national landmark and it had simply been allowed to remain there out of respect for what it had once been. Nowadays, the students of Ravenwood used it for dueling practice, to try out their new spells against friends and classmates before testing them in combat. Hopefully, no one would be out here this late at night— except Cyrus, of course, and herself.

She slinked through the doors— which stuck, as they hadn't been greased in several years— and into the building itself, with its empty seats and the few sad, moth-eaten flags that still hung from the ceiling. She took a moment to survey the scene, envisioning the place in its full glory… and that was when she heard a voice in the back of her mind.

_I see you._

Alarmed, she spun on her heels and searched for the source of the sound— it seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the trophy-case on the far wall. When she looked, there was no one there, but it was only a minute before she heard it again.

_Come now, child. Don't be afraid._

The voice was barely a whisper in the darkness, taunting her from some unseen place and making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Glancing around, she lit a candle and searched some more— was Cyrus playing a trick on her, or was she really in danger?

"W…who are you?"

_Someone you don't want to make angry, child. Now, look at me— not with your eyes, but with your soul. To know me is to know yourself, and to embrace your true power._

She heard a _swish_, the rustle of velvet in the eveningbreeze, and whirled around to find herself face-to-face with… a hooded figure in a black cape. His face was covered, but she could see his eyes— cold, smoky tendrils of black that glowed eerily beneath a bloodstained funeral shroud, watching her every move. She steeled herself for a moment, preparing for what she might see beneath those filmy layers as she lifted her hand to remove them. But, before she could unmask her stalker, he vanished into thin air as a familiar voice called her name.

"Welcome, Wizard Shadowsong," Cyrus greeted her coldly. "I've been waiting for nearly a half-hour, and was beginning to think you'd either gotten lost or chickened out. Then, I took a peek in here, only to find you making strange gestures with your hands and talking to yourself— is the lack of desert heat getting to you, perhaps?"

As he said this, a chill raced up Shadowsong's spine. Cyrus hadn't seen the strange man at all, meaning that he had intended for her— and only her— to notice him… but why?

When she didn't answer, he simply motioned for her to step into the dueling ring. "Never mind," he went on, pulling a wand from his pocket. "Your first lesson is in self-control. Malistaire is very manipulative, and will use your own emotions against you, given half a chance; therefore, it's extremely important that you learn to harness your inner energy. If he takes control of your mind, you may as well be dead on your feet, though this domination spell will increase your odds of survival. Repeat after me: _aut vincere aut mori_. Conquer, or die."

"Aut vincere aut mori."

_"_Good," Cyrus said, raising his wand in the air. "Now, as you may or may not already know, stunning is a form of paralysis that leaves the victim immobile— conscious, but unable to move. This is how Malistaire tortures his prisoners— stuns them first, then takes over their minds and mutilates or dismembers them— because he derives some sick pleasure from their fear, and watching them suffer while they're helpless to do anything about it. Stuns are short-range spells, so try not to let him close enough to stun you. If he does, the worst you can do is panic— keep calm, and focus all of your strength on driving it out. That should break the spell."

_Sadist. Feeds on fear. And I'm not supposed to panic?_

Shadowsong agreed and added those to the list of mental notes already swimming in her head— enchantments, runes, Alhazred's teachings, and now this. There was a lot of knowledge crammed into her brain, likely enough to fill a few books with, but she'd worry about sorting through it later.

But Cyrus wasn't done. "Now," he continued, seeming to have recovered from his earlier outburst. "It's time to see what you're made of. In a few moments, my pet basilisk is going to stun you— I'm warning you now that it won't be pleasant, since basilisk stings are quite toxic and can cause permanent damage to the skin and nerve tissue… Not to mention that they burn like hell. But I want you to resist it, focus on rejecting the poison— if you can do this, you'll break the spell. Otherwise, you'll die a slow and painful death… Good luck!"

With a flick of his wand, a giant snakelike creature emerged from its tip, hissing at her before it turned around and walloped her with its tail. Almost instantly, she crumpled to the ground and began to shake— she couldn't move, and venom seared through her like an electric current as she tried hopelessly to shield herself from the monster's massive teeth and claws. But she remembered Cyrus' advice and forced herself to push through the pain.

_Aut vincere aut mori. Conquer or die._

She repeated the mantra a few more times, until she'd convinced herself of it. When the basilisk lunged at her throat, she was able to unsheathe her sword and put enough distance between them that it couldn't stun her again. And, when she'd finished, Cyrus called off the creature and gave her a hearty clap on the back.

"Well done, child," he almost gushed, clapping his hands together excitedly. "The worst part's over, for now. I honestly didn't think you'd last long enough, but Alhazred has taught you well. He's right to see such promise in you, which brings me to lesson number two— psychic shields. You're an Empath, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Cyrus shook his head and removed his wand again. "I see," he went on. "On one hand, this is extremely useful to us, because you'll always be in-tune with his deepest feelings and can use them to your advantage in battle. On the other hand, it gives Malistaire another weapon to use against you—and, believe me, he will— so you'll need to be vigilant and not let his inner darkness overwhelm you as well. The best way to do this is with a psychic shield; your mind will use its natural defenses to block any unwanted emotions from reaching you, thus giving you full control over what happens inside your own head."

"Fine," she ventured finally, still shivering from her basilisk encounter. "But what if I can't keep him out? Am I completely stuck once he's in, though, or can I use another means to take back control?"

Cyrus smiled at her— a smile that, though creepy, she could tell was real. "Both excellent questions," he stated, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "That's why I want you to try it now. I'm going to think dark thoughts— not simply sad things, but thoughts that would strike fear into the stomachs of even the most-experienced wizards. Your natural instinct will probably be to scream… or something of that sort. But I need you to fight it: concentrate on my emotions, and on removing their influence from your mind. Be strong, young wizard, as what you're going to feel isn't for the faint of heart."

Shadowsong agreed, and waited a moment before the room was suddenly awash in shades of anger. Her veins constricted as she felt rage permeate her skin— if this feeling had a colour, it would have been red, like blood or pomegranates. And, whatever this anger was, she was glad that Cyrus had kept it to himself, because her entire body was now riddled with its toxicity.

She fought the urge to break things, taking a sharp breath and trying to counter the madness with a happy memory. She didn't have many memories, so she improvised and quickly formed an image of what she thought her parents would have looked like, based on her appearance. She imagined them someplace green and free, once again resisting the urge to let her construction dissolve into ugliness— letting it turn to rage against the person responsible for killing them would have been too easy, but she was above it.

_Become the torment you wish to inflict._

There was that voice again— the voice of the hooded man— as an image of him flashed in front of her eyes. Instinctively, she closed them and screamed, a guttural cry ripped straight from the depths of her soul—she couldn't do it, simply wasn't strong enough to keep the anger from overwhelming her. And yet, she tried again, using her self-created image to push it—and him— from her mind, until there were no traces of its presence.

The last thing she remembered was falling to the ground, weak and out of breath. Cyrus immediately dropped his wand and rushed to her side, resting a hand on her forehead, which was now slick with sweat. "You did it," he exclaimed, helping her to her feet as he attempted to calm her down. "When I heard you scream, I thought you were done for— are you all right?"

"Sylvia," was all escaped her lips, which trembled so intensely that she could barely form the word. "Malistaire's wife, your sister-in-law— she didn't die. She was _murdered_, in cold blood, and _you…_ you _loved_ her."


	3. in the middle of the night

_i've been walking this road of desire-_  
_i've been begging for blood on the wall;_  
_i don't care if i'm playing with fire-_  
_i'm aware that i'm frozen inside_

(within temptation,_ in the middle of the night_)

Cyrus' eyes suddenly dropped to the floor, and she knew that she'd been right. There was no lying to an Empath— if he did, she would feel it and, worse yet, she'd understand why. "We're through here," he replied simply, bypassing her observation and heading for the door. "In any case, I'd say you're sufficiently prepared, and will have no problems getting out of there… provided that you don't get involved in things that don't concern you."

He flicked his wand and disappeared from view, leaving Shadowsong alone in the now-dark arena as the candle he'd lit by the door flickered out. The room was suddenly cold, and it made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end— why had she said anything, made Cyrus mad enough to leave her here, in the first place? It hadn't been her business at all, but she couldn't help herself— in the heat of the moment, it had been the only thing she could think of to say.

Just then, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She spun around quickly and found herself face-to-face with the hooded figure once again— he was tall and thin, with eyes that held her in place, dark as a crypt. Shadowsong wanted to scream, or cry, but she was now more determined than ever to figure out who this man was, and what he wanted with her.

"Show yourself," she insisted, trying to keep her voice under control. "I'm asking you nicely, now, since I haven't got time for any games."

_It should be obvious, child. Now, take the mask off— face your deepest fears, and unveil my true identity._

In the dark, it took her a few minutes to find the loose end of the funeral shroud. But the hooded figure didn't seem to mind, letting her fingers slip beneath the hood of his cloak as she searched for something to grab onto. Finally, she found a knot and easily unraveled it; her fingers touched something wet— blood, perhaps— but she made quick work of it, only to reveal…

_Him._

She couldn't say his name aloud— even thinking it filled her heart with dread, and she remained silent for several minutes before finally gathering her wits and pressing her lips together in a thin line. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Why have you come?"

"It doesn't matter why _I'm_ here," he replied slowly— condescendingly, as though speaking to a very-small child. "But what does matter is that _you're _here, of your own volition. How easy it would have been, for you to scream and run away… Instead, you stayed here and freed me from the dark and twisted prison of this living death. For that, I am ever in your debt, my dear— but don't forget that _you_ are ever in _mine_."

When she looked confused, he simply gestured to the door. "You see," he continued. "It was I, who freed you from Cyrus' spell— who gave you the strength to endure his rage and allowed you to live; you may be a very adept student, though even the most proficient sorcerers lack the ability to pass that test. I didn't have to keep you alive, my dear, but letting you die would have been a terrible waste of resources…"

"Resources? Oh, I see… Well, if this involves my soul, you can absolutely, one-hundred percent forget it. So, if you don't mind, I need to go home now… meaning that it's time for you to sod off. Good day to you!"

She headed for the exit, but he blocked the doorway off with an eruption of grey-green light from his staff. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you… You see, there's an army of wraiths keeping guard outside your bedroom door— they have scythes, and immediate orders to kill anyone who tries to get in or out. So you're not going anywhere, _sweetheart_… You're coming with me."

"By the Spiral, how dare you_—_ wait, where are you taking me?"

_Oh, it doesn't matter. But I hope you enjoy horror stories, my dear— you're in one._


	4. ravenheart

_you, shadow of forgotten dreams-_  
_you come, to take away_  
_my hope, on your black wings._

(xandria, _ravenheart_)

Some hours later, Shadowsong awoke, feeling like she'd been hit by one of those MB Marleybone Automobiles she'd read about once. She was still covered in red and green goo, like a Christmas cookie decorated by a blindfolded and drunk wraith— her head throbbed, and the rest of her body felt heavy, as though her limbs were made of lead. She tried to move, but was displeased to note that her arms and legs were chained to the bars of the cage she now shared with six other prisoners— three men, two women, and a young boy in his teens— all of whom looked as hardened as she felt.

"Welcome to your death, little one," said the man to her right, in a thick accent— Irish, perhaps, or Scottish. He looked weary and battle-worn, with several scars on his face and bald patches where his red hair had been singed clean off. "I'm terribly sorry, for I know a pretty young lass like ye've likely a sweet'eart who'll miss ye dearly."

When she shook her head _no_, he continued. "Better for ye, then," he went on mournfully. "Because everyone dies here— it's just a matter of when, or if insanity comes first and yer not of sound mind when it's time tae go. Meself's gotta wife an' two wee ones at home, an' I'll prob'ly never see 'em again."

As sorry as she felt for him, Shadowsong almost didn't believe he was serious. "I'm not going to die," she insisted, trying to convince herself just as much as the others. "I— _we'll_ make it out of here alive, _all _of us. I'll figure something out, if I ever get the chance to look that corpse-puppet in the face."

As if on cue, Malistaire and a pair of wraiths entered the room, and the sight of them was almost more than she could handle. The prisoners around her shivered, but she was determined to stand her ground, waiting for the right moment to speak— she had promised that no one would die, and she planned to follow through on that, as best she could.

"Morgan Crowblood!" the Necromaster shouted, his voice echoing eerily through the otherwise-silent chamber. "Get up here! We don't have all day… _or, perhaps, we do_."

He smirked horribly, and Shadowsong cringed as a young girl— maybe twelve or thirteen— stepped forward, accompanied by the wraiths. Her head was hung in shame, but she didn't fight or cry— it seemed that she'd all but lost the will to live as she took her place in the center of that dueling ring. Malistaire circled her like a vulture and the wraiths hovered nearby as they awaited further instructions; the whole scene was something out of a horror story— this child was going to become a soulless… _thing_, if she did nothing about it. And that couldn't happen— _wouldn't_ happen— if she had her way.

Thinking quickly, she slipped one hand from the restraints and consulted the torn and tattered map of the Draongspyre throne room she'd stolen from Ambrose's office some time ago. It wasn't a recent map, which meant that things had moved and few details were missing, but there was no mistaking that she was in the middle of Castle Dragonspyre's main torture chamber. The suffocating heat was a dead giveaway, as was the sweat that poured down her face and neck in messy rivulets, nearly obscuring her vision as she tried to keep from fainting.

_Dear Lavalords, _she nearly gasped aloud. _Krokotopia's a bloody icebox, next to this place. Look at all of those bodies! At least pack them on ice or something, to get rid of that smell. _

Just then, a drop of green slime hit her square in the eye; instantly, she jerked her head up and was horrified to note that she was now standing amid the sea of corpses. Bodies were strewn about, badly singed and in various states of decay— one was missing a head, while a still-beating heart lay a few feet from her, and several others seemed to have misplaced their fingers and toes. Congealed blood and ectoplasm covered just about every visible surface, dripping onto her armour from somewhere she couldn't see… and then, something snapped her back to the moment.


	5. vampire

_so would you kiss the sun goodbye_,  
_and give your life to never die?_

(xandria, _vampire_)

"For crimes against the Crown, Miss Crowblood, your punishment is _death_."

Malistaire raised his staff in the air and prepared to strike. The girl called Morgan looked utterly terrified, and closed her eyes tightly as she braced herself for the inevitable— but, before he could hit her, Shadowsong diverted his attention with a well-placed shout.

"Crimes against the Crown, my arse."

As planned, her brazenness caught him completely off-guard and he immediately turned his eyes to her, as did the wraiths. "Well, well," he drawled cruelly, every word laced with venom. "Look what the Kroks dragged in— Alhazred's very-own apprentice, Lady Judgement herself. How wonderful of you to grace us with your presence, my dear… The thought of your imminent death just _slays_ me. But alas, the show must go on! Guards, bring her to me!"

He muttered something to the wraiths, who unbound her and brought her to the middle of the room. The girl-wizard Morgan mumbled some shaken thanks as she was escorted back to her cell, and Shadowsong fearlessly took her spot in the battle circle— all eyes were on her now and, as Malistaire smirked coldly and pointed his staff at her chest, she tried to convince herself that she had done the right thing. At least she'd be the outlet for his sadistic impulses, instead of the child…

The prisoners all screamed as a beam of grey burst forth from the tip of his staff and flew at Shadowsong's face. Thinking quickly, she grabbed her sword from its sheath and held it in front of her body— it deflected the beam, splitting it in half and hitting the wraiths on either side of her, and their black cloaks fluttered to the ground as they disintegrated into crypt dust.

Shocked, Malistaire turned to look at what had unfolded. Of course, Shadowsong used the pause to her advantage and fired a bolt of orange light his way— he didn't see it coming, and it hit him full-force, sent him flying backward into a wall. As he stood up, she hit him again— this time, she knocked the staff out of his hands, and the prisoners whooped. But, before she could kick it out of reach, he grabbed it back and forced her to the ground, pinning her sword to the floor with his foot. "Feisty, aren't we?" he laughed mockingly, jabbing her in the stomach with the blunt end of his staff. "I see why Alhazred calls you his best and bravest fighter. Unfortunately, bravery alone can't save you now."

He removed his boot from the tip of her blade, and extended his arm to her. "Please," he continued, the smug grin on his face making her want to dispense with formalities and clock him right in the nose. "Just remember which of us is the master, and which is the slave. Learn your place, girl, and I may let you live."

Without acknowledging his peace-offering, she leapt to her feet, almost catlike, and dusted herself off before she faked a curtsy and spat in his face. "I see," she answered. "Well, I'll keep it in mind. And, if you run this kingdom like you run your mouth, I don't suppose it hurts to take your own advice."

A few of the prisoners snickered, but were quickly silenced with dagger-eyes from Malistaire, whose face was a mixture of humiliation and anger. "Shut up!" he roared, summoning two more wraiths from somewhere in midair. "All of you! Be glad for your pretty face, Wizard Shadowsong—I would tear you apart _right _now, were you not so… _beautiful_."

"So, you're afraid to fight a girl?"

A few more snickers this time. Enraged, Malistaire fired a bolt of something grey from his wand—in reply, Shadowsong quickly cast a Spirit Shield, but the weird, grey light smashed clean through it and left a nasty-looking blister on her right shoulder. She winced, but quickly recovered and shielded again— she managed to avoid three more bolts of the grey stuff before he hit her square in the chest, and she doubled over in excruciating pain.

"You're walking on very thin ice, my dear. Didn't Alhazred teach you respect for your superiors?"

Her only response was to moan loudly as the dark magic surged through her, filling her with sudden fear— empathic manipulation, perhaps, or a mental blast. For what felt like hours, she lay there on the cold marble floor, twitching and writhing like the victim of an exorcism gone bad, as the other prisoners watched in horror. Finally, she gathered her senses just enough to form a coherent response.

"Coward."

She barely had time to get the word out before he zapped her again. "What was that?" he demanded, prodding her in the stomach with the staff once more. "A little louder this time, child."

"I said," she spat, grimacing in pain as he zapped her yet again. "You're a coward!"

As he raised his staff a third time, she thought the word _stop_. Almost instantly, he obeyed and glanced around at the prisoners, utterly stupefied. "By the Spiral," he roared. "Which one of you did that? If no one wants to tell me, I'll just force it out of you— I've got all day."

Once again, no one volunteered. He turned his eyes back to Shadowsong, who picked herself up off the ground and returned the glare. "I see," he continued, smirking coldly at her. "You have little choice here, my dear— so either confess, or face punishment for the misgivings of others. You wouldn't dare lie to me, would you?"

"Well," she replied, managing to disguise the quiver in her voice with a laugh. "That first depends on whether you want an honest answer or not. I could tell you _no_, which is a lie in itself, or I could say _yes _and have you torture me until I confess, which could also be a lie in itself."

For a moment, he looked confused again. "So be it," he sneered, giving her the once-over as he attempted to recover what was left of his pride. "Speaking in riddles is quite the cute trick, but rest assured that it won't win you any friends here. In any case, you'd best watch your mouth, girl— you never know when I'll be back."

In response, she smiled sweetly and gestured toward him with her sword. "That's nice," she answered back, returning it to its sheath at last. "When you're man enough to give me a _real _fight, I'll be waiting."

"Don't worry, my dear— I'll get you back for that display of… whatever it was. Guards, lock her up!"

He left the room, accompanied by one of the wraiths, while Shadowsong was escorted back to her cell by the other. There was no doubt that she'd been lucky— she'd learned that Domination spell from Cyrus only a few weeks ago, and had never tested it in combat; fortunately, it had worked, and she was still alive.

Once the second wraith had disappeared, the prisoners burst into applause and the man who'd previously spoken nudged her shoulder gently. "Great work, little one" he said, his voice sparkling with renewed energy. "I thought ye was sure tae gettit, but ye showed that overcooked corpse-bag a thing'er two back there! All of us 'ere are ever in yer debt."

"You owe me nothing," she replied, leaning casually back against the wall. "It's what I do. But he'll be back, and I'll be ready when he comes."


	6. sick sense

_now, i don't want you to believe_  
_ the feeling you brought out of me-_

_ tell me it's what you always wanted,_  
_ but tell me that your heart is haunted;_  
_ tell me this is all you need-_

_just go ahead and lie to me._

(pop evil, _sick sense_)

Over the next few weeks, Shadowsong discovered that every day was exactly the same— wake up, feign compliance, and strategize with the other prisoners in her cell until Malistaire showed up and picked some poor person to torture for fun. He never seemed to tire of it, always finding new, sadistic— and, admittedly, impressive— ways to hurt people, and Shadowsong wondered when it would finally be her turn to die.

Oddly enough, she hadn't been in the dueling ring again since her first day. Now that she'd stood up to him, it seemed that the idea of killing her had lost its appeal— he would torture the other prisoners for hours, sometimes days, on end, but only the wraiths ever came for her; they didn't know magic, so they used things like scythes and sickles to make their point—whatever that point was— and it always hurt, badly.

On this particular day, however, that changed. She'd been conspiring with the other prisoners in her cell, when Malistaire arrived and demanded that she be moved to solitary confinement— she was too dangerous, he insisted, and a threat to the other prisoners. So the wraiths bound her at the wrists and ankles, and dragged her off to her new cell— it was in a different wing of the castle, this one closer to the throne-room and visible from the throne itself; to keep her from escaping, no doubt. There, she was tortured daily by the wraiths, but Malistaire himself no longer stopped in to encourage them.

_Good riddance to him, too._

Every day he didn't come for her was a victory. It meant that, in some indirect way, she'd won— that he'd lost interest in trying to kill her and would eventually send her on her way home. These thoughts kept her warm for a while, and she allowed herself to dream of rescue— of familiar things, and of the light that surely awaited her at the end of the infinitely-dark tunnel.

Unfortunately, it was too good to last— as time wore on, and the wraiths continued to pay her hourly visits, she slowly began to lose hope. She wished that Malistaire would just kill her already, since it seemed inevitable, and the odds that she'd die here were higher than the chance she'd ever see home again. It wasn't the pain that had broken her down, but the thought of failing so dramatically that truly made her sick inside. She'd wanted a heroine's death, but she only cared now that it would be quick and painless; anything, but _this_.

The fiery evening light slowly melted into darkness, and Shadowsong sat in her cell, watching the shadows that now danced across the walls. Malistaire and his minions were finally on the other side of that locked door— she was safe, for the time being, and hoped that they would leave her alone, for once. He was evil to the core, even more so than she'd anticipated, since the wraiths were too stupid to come up with such cruel punishments on their own. He was clearly the one behind it all and would always be a monster, in her eyes.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and she was overwhelmed by the terrible ache of what felt like an entire roomful of wraiths sucking the life from her body. She didn't need to look up, to know that he had finally come, and likely had some wicked plot in store for her. At first, it had seemed that things couldn't get any worse, but he constantly proved her wrong— they could always be much, much worse.

"Good evening, my dear," he began, the echo of his voice in the empty chamber making her every nerve prickle with fear and disdain. "Don't be afraid— I'm here to make you a deal."

"If it involves my soul, you can forget it. My allegiance is to the Order and, if that means you have to kill me, then so be it. I won't betray them to save my own hide."

He narrowed his cold, black eyes at her and frowned, yet the expression on his face wasn't anger— more like a mixture of confusion and shame. "How very presumptuous," he replied, still looking quite stuck between expressions. "You're hardly in a position to be calling any shots, Wizard Shadowsong. But I quite enjoy seeing how hopelessly deluded you still are; it's charming, but rather unfortunate."

In response, Shadowsong folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "Deluded?" she retorted, tossing her head. "Not on your life— or _unlife,_ whatever you call it. The Order _will _come for me, and Alhazred'll see to it himself that you get what you deserve. Just you wait and—"

"Oh, please," he snapped back at her. "Am I to watch your descent into madness, while you lose yourself in flights of fancy? Alhazred won't be coming for you, princess— you're an _apprentice_, disposable; he's left you to die. And you will, in due time, unless you embrace your inner darkness. Such a terrible shame, that your devotion to them is not reciprocated. "

"Now, who's being presumptuous?"

For a moment, his eyes flashed with a murderous rage, but he didn't retaliate, or try to torture her into submission. Instead, he reached through the cage and touched her cheek for a second before backing away, as though on the run from a rather-terrifying dragon. "You're a very pretty girl," he admitted, in an uncharacteristically-calm— and creepy— voice. "So please, don't upset the balance of things— yes, that was intentional— and, when the wraiths come, just do as you're told. That way, I won't have to kill you."

And, with a swish of his cape behind him, he was gone, leaving a very-confused Shadowsong in his wake.


	7. serenade of flames

_nothing you can do or say _  
_could change your fate-_  
_you are mine._

(serenity, _serenade of flames_)

It was a dark night, near boiling— typical for Dragonspyre, this time of year— and Shadowsong sat alone in her cell, sharpening her sword yet again. The wraiths would be here any time, with their horrible, vacant eyes and lust for blood so strong that it rivaled even their master's, and her daily fight for survival would begin anew. Part of her hoped, against all hope, that today would be the end— that they would just kill her and get it over with— she had already failed, and the Order would not be able to rescue her this time.

As predicted, the minions arrived in groups of four, torture devices aplenty. Sharp knives, ropes, and chains hung from their shoulders, and they gazed wantonly into her deepest soul— probably to report back to the Necromaster himself. She'd taken the advice she'd been given and stayed on her best behaviour— didn't question anything they did, or scream as they beat her near death, day after day. If compliance was the key to survival, then she would have to fake it.

"You're going to get it, little wizard," one of the more-articulate wraiths taunted, brandishing a large sickle at her as it licked its ugly, shriveled lips. "Lots of fun today, we'll have… and it just so happens that _you_ are the fun."

No sooner had the words come out, Zarathax— the Draconian in charge of the Decaying Blackguard regiment— flew in, frantically waving a piece of yellowed parchment in his hand. "Comradessss," he hissed, motioning them over to where he stood. "What in the Dragon Titan's name are you doing? I have direct orders to let this girl alone."

In response, the wraiths just stood there and leered at each other, their heads wobbling in perfect unison. During her time here, Shadowsong had learned that most of Malistaire's henchmen weren't the sharpest swords on the pile; mindless mimicry was to be expected, but this was a new low.

Finally, one stepped forward, looking confused. "No," it gasped, still bobbing stupidly in mid-air, right along with its counterparts. "The Dark One gives us the child for practice, yes? Why he must ruin our fun?"

"Idiotsss," Zarathax hissed again. "You all heard me— _that_ is Lord Malistaire's girl. My liege has specifically instructed that she be kept alive, and that you are not to harm her, under _any_ circumstances."

Now, it was Shadowsong's turn to be confused. It was a known fact that anyone who made it as far into the Crown of Fire's depths as she had never left alive. The Malistaire she knew was a bloodthirsty sadist, who tortured his victims until they either died or lost their minds— whichever came first. He wasn't known for his kindness, save for that one strange night in her cell, and to die here would surely be a mercy. Certainly, it would be more honourable than a life spent in mindless servitude.

She thought about this for a moment, as the minions sprang to sudden life and began jabbering on excitedly. Sure, they would eventually find another prisoner to pick on— someone who would make their sad, little afterlives a bit brighter by cracking under pressure— but she did not want to find out what was in store for her, beyond those steel bars.

"Ssssilence," Zarathax commanded, jabbing Shadowsong in the side with his pointed tail— which, even through her layers of leather corseting and armour, hurt. "Come along, dearie. The Necromaster will see you now."

Once again, they bound her at the wrists and dragged her off to the throne-room by a chain they'd placed around her neck— she struggled briefly, but her efforts were quickly and quietly interrupted by the wraith with the empty, bug-like eyes. They were so devoted, she thought, to both Malistaire and the Crown— she had once served the Order of the Fang with the same, tireless energy, and she wondered what it would be like, for once, to have entire legions at _her_ beck and call.

The chains jerked forward, bringing the group to a stop, and Shadowsong grimaced as Malistaire eyed her appraisingly, as though scouring her surface for imperfections— any excuse, to be rid of her completely. Instead, he rose from the chair made of skulls and took the chain from the bug-eyed wraith, hanging onto it as though life itself depended on it.

"My dear," he addressed her, bowing as he touched her cheek. His fingers were deathly cold, like icicles, and stung her skin in a way that made it crawl with fear and revulsion; when compared with the daily torture and humiliation that he'd previously subjected her to, this was ten times worse. And his newfound _affection_, if one could even call it that, was terrifying as hell.

At a loss for words, she simply inclined her head and glared at him with every ounce of venom she could muster in her tired and worn state. "I am no slave," she snapped, straining her wrists and neck against the cold, steel bonds. "Keep your filthy, undead hands to yourself, and I demand that you release me this instant."

But he did neither, instead cupping her chin in his hand as she trembled beneath his gaze. "Come, my dear," he insisted, slipping an arm around her waist as he led her away from the prying eyes of the minions who had assembled there. "Surely, someone as beautiful as you should never be without… _admirers_."

He had absolutely no shame, she thought, and she knew exactly what he wanted her for. To resist would surely get her killed, and thus, she had no choice but to comply— even if the very thought gnawed at her soul like an entire clan of shadow-wraiths. If she could swallow her fear, but for this one, brief moment, then she could live another day and continue to plan her escape.

"Hold on," she stammered awkwardly, desperate to buy herself some time as his icy fingers unhooked the back of her corset. "Couldn't we just… For the love of all things sacred, can we just _talk _this through? You know, like civilized wizards. Or is that too much to ask?"

At that moment, their eyes met, and he peered guiltily at her. "Formalities, my dear," he replied dismissively, draping an arm protectively across her shoulders. "Such things are best left to those who draft the contracts, as… Oh, never mind that. But look at _you_— such an exquisite creature, all alone in the world. Oh, my little crypt-dove— you deserve to be _loved_, though no living thing could ever love you as I do."

"That doesn't make sense, and you're being creepy. Now, let me go— at once, I say!"

She hoped that her defiance would make him angry— mad enough to kill, even, so that he would destroy her and she could die a swift, dignified death… unlike most of the other prisoners, who had been violently tortured and killed, while she and the others were forced to watch. Instead, he gave a mournful sigh and slowly moved his hands over hers before pressing a finger to her lips. "No," he replied. "Not when I'm so close to the perfect end. If you insist on a fight, milady, I'll gladly give you one, but we're going to play by _my _rules."

"Right, because I'm just going to obey _you_. Put simply, there's a better chance that one of us will find a family of Satyrs in your throne-room, than of me giving you anything— allegiance, or otherwise."

"Words are but words, my dear. It's all worthless, until you prove it— and, to be quite honest, I doubt you have it in you to refuse."

For a moment, Shadowsong nearly forgot herself and considered pledging her allegiance to the Master of Death and his cronies— it was as though she suddenly felt compelled to, though she wasn't quite sure why. "Come," he instructed, taking her by the hand and guiding her into a dark hallway. "Follow me, and I will show you what _could_ be..."

With only the eerie, grey haze from Malistaire's staff to light the way, they moved slowly through the tunnel — a sweltering, dark passage below the Great Spyre that stretched beneath the torture-chamber and throne room for miles. On the other side was another much-smaller room, filled with strange and wonderful things; gold coins, glittering gems, and bones— mostly skulls— covered nearly every visible surface, and a small lava fount bubbled in the corner. In spite of the gloom, it was beautiful, indeed— an underground treasure trove.

"Wh…Where are we?"

She looked to him for an answer, but he said nothing, simply gesturing to something along the far wall. At first, she'd thought it a curtain or tapestry; upon closer investigation, however, she discovered that it wasn't a piece of furniture, but a dress— not just any dress, but the most-beautiful gown she'd ever seen in her life: a red and black crushed-velvet one, with a plunging neckline and lace trimming, that looked like it had been made for her.

She instinctively reached out to touch it, though she quickly withdrew; as she pulled back, Malistaire caught her hand in midair and slipped an arm around her waist, nudging her gently forward. _Go on_, she heard him say— not out loud, but inside her head. _Touch it, if you want to— don't be afraid of your own power._

As he said this, it seemed to beckon her— once again, she felt compelled to follow his instructions, so she extended her arm once more. Almost instantly, the soft, velvety fabric sprang to life beneath her fingers and began to mold itself to every curve of her body— eufiber, no doubt. Made from unicorn tears and imbued with magical properties, a wizard could attune the mystical cloth to his or her soul; as far as she knew, it didn't work on others, so how he had created eufiber that had attuned itself to hers was just another of dark magic's great mysteries.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly. "More-importantly, how did you do that, and how come you're being so nice to me, all of a sudden?"

"We all have our secrets," he answered, aloud this time. "As for why you're here, I think we've come to an understanding. Only fate could bring a beautiful girl like you into such a dark, unhallowed place— clearly, _you_ are the one intended to become my Mistress of Shadows."


	8. lullaby

_ i run, and i hide in the dark,  
threatened by each distant bark;  
sleep, little love, for heaven's sake- _  
_sleep, for i'm here to fulfill your fate.  
_

(lyriel, _lullaby_)

Shadowsong stood there silently, paralyzed with fear, for several minutes before she finally found her voice. "Hold on a moment," she finally managed to say. "I'm fated to become _what_? I don't know who you think you're talking to, or what you're trying to do, but— I can't. I simply cannot be part of this."

"You don't have a choice, my dear. It was written by the fates and must, therefore, come to pass."

So, he was planning to keep her here after all— hold her against her will until he broke her spirit completely—all in the name of this so-called _love_? It was a horrifying concept, but she knew that nothing would come between Malistaire and his trophy; now that he had her alone, the outcome was inevitable, and there would be no one to rescue her from his icy clutches.

_Still doesn't make sense, and still creepy._

"I already told you how it is," she huffed. "My allegiance is to the Order— there will never be enough gold in the Spiral to make me love you, and certainly _not_ like this. What about Sylvia, or what's left of her— what would _she_ have had to say about all of this?"

The mention of Sylvia's name seemed to finally strike a chord. "Never mind that," he snapped irritably, letting go of her for a brief moment as he struggled to process her retort. "My affairs are none of your business, child. Take it back, and I won't cut your tongue out."

In response, she feigned shock and quickly forced tears into the corners of her eyes, as though she were the naïve, young girl-wizard that he had obviously taken her for. "Fine," she replied shakily. "I retract my words, but not my wishes. I'm sorry, but I have to—"

As expected, his eyes softened almost instantly. "No, my dear," he replied solemnly, cutting neatly through her words as he cupped her chin in his hand and planted a cold kiss on her forehead. "It is I who should apologize, for threatening a lady— especially one as beautiful and innocent as you. Sylvia was no different— pure of heart and intent, untainted; your eyes are even the same colour as hers were, green and full of life as… Oh, never mind. Please, just let me apologize for my indiscretions— past, and future."

_And future?_

Before she could protest, he gathered her into his arms and carried her over to a red-and-purple sofa in the far corner. "Do not fear me," he insisted, stroking her hair as he set her down. "All I ask is that you allow me just this— your soul, as my own, but this once. Free yourself from the chains of life, and we will ever be… _immortal_."

"This is indecency, milord. Now let me go, or I'll—"

"Or you'll _what_?"

The next thing she felt was his finger pressed against her lips, followed by a sharp stab of pain as a burst of grey light enveloped the room. Shadowsong closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to pretend that she was somewhere else as her soul fought to leave her body for his. Dark spiritual energies coursed between them, and the pain that followed was like a sword made of ice had been thrust deep into her chest as she was suddenly enveloped in the frigid, corpselike cloak of undeath.

"What are you going to do about it, sweet-pea? Glare at me with those pretty eyes of yours, until the end of time? I suppose I can live with that arrangement."

"You make me sick."

Unfortunately, her jab seemed to encourage him and, as the evening wore on, she became increasingly frustrated as his treatment of her shifted unpredictably between adoration and scorn, mocking and tenderness. She didn't understand why, but she had a feeling that he wasn't about to just explain it to her.

_Let go,_ she heard his voice whisper in her mind— affectionate again. _Let go of everything, and surrender to the darkness that I feel in you._ _Love me_, _as I love you_.

He thought he loved her— in his deepest heart, or what was left of it, he truly believed that this was _love_, and that fact alone was enough to frighten her into submission. If this was, in his twisted mind, what it meant to _love_ another person, he was surely capable of much worse, and she vowed to exact revenge. Of course, planning it would have to wait until she was alone— and in a less-compromising position.

_As I love you._

Whether because of the cold, the strange novelty of the sensation, or both, Shadowsong found herself doing exactly as he requested— surrendering— albeit unwillingly, as a convalescent might to the disease that she knew would take her life. She shuddered slightly as the dark energy twisted through her, her entire body seeming to float through the air as though she had sprouted wings. She wondered if this was what dying felt like, but the pain soon dulled to a barely-noticeable ache, only to be replaced by something else— either crushing defeat, or acceptance.

_Love me_.

She heard it in the back of her head again, and tried in vain to shut it out. The fact that he'd resorted to mind-control meant that he already knew she'd never surrender on her own, and it terrified her. She didn't know how he was talking through her mind, either, without uttering a single word aloud— telepathic domination was involved, though to what extent was unknown. Perhaps he was a quantum construct, and was simply using her own abilities to make a mockery of her, at her most-vulnerable.

"What? Are you out of your mind?"

More frightened than ever, she tried to wriggle free. Of course, she quickly discovered that her attempts were futile as he easily overpowered her, both physically and mentally— it was as though he drew his strength from her fear, and she simply didn't have the wherewithal to topple his determination.

"If this is madness, my dear, then a more-beautiful madness there never was."

In truth, Malistaire _did _sense that she was afraid, and tried to placate her by forgoing telepathy, for the moment. "It's all right," he whispered, tilting her chin upward so that she was forced to look him in the eye. "You want only to love, and be loved— we seek the same, my dear, and I will give them to you. But you must first learn to free yourself from the trappings of mortality."

As repulsed as she was by what was happening, Shadowsong suddenly felt the fear melting away; it returned, full-force, only seconds later, but not before those words had set her skin aflame. The Necromaster had just pledged to her his undying allegiance and devotion, in exchange for her affections— her soul. But, as much as she'd always longed for companionship, she knew that she could never give him what he wanted.

Her body stiffened, and she braced herself against the furious onslaught of shame that bubbled into her throat. To cry would show her weakness and, in turn, only feed his vicious thirst for power. So she simply closed her eyes and squeezed them tightly shut, wishing with all of her heart that she could simply erase his touch from her memory.


	9. blood on my hands

_no one sees how i'm burning-  
no one feels this yearning.  
so come, taste this black poison  
and forgive my obsession.__  
_

(xandria, _blood on my hands_)

As the minutes turned into hours, Shadowsong 's fear turned to rage. She wanted to fight back— stick him with her sword until the entire room was bloody and slick with vengeance. But the darkness seemed to swallow her, and she remained still, unable to free herself from the deep-freeze that enveloped the entire room as he sapped her of any remaining strength and resilience.

"Stop," she spat, half-pleadingly, through gritted teeth. "Torturing me isn't going to make me agree with your silly prophecy! So let me go— kill me if you must, but I'll never surrender _anything _to you!"

"My," he laughed chillingly. "You're a feisty one, aren't you? What are you going to do about it, sweetheart— glare at me until you somehow burn a hole in my torturing arm with your eyes? How very brave of you, Wizard Shadowsong… and how very, very stupid."

She fought against the cold, grey light, desperate to escape its hold on her. But Malistaire just laughed, which infuriated her all the more. "Kill me," she repeated, her voice steady this time. "I'll die before I serve you!"

At this, he smirked coldly and touched her cheek once more. She shuddered in disgust and tried to pull away, but not before he slashed her across the face with his dagger. "Well, well," he answered, smirking horribly. "I see you've quite the mouth on you, little lady. But not to worry— your time will come; I'll suck out your soul, like a vampire does blood, and I'll enjoy every minute of it."

Once more, she drew a sharp breath and tried to suppress the sob that pressed against her lips like a battering-ram; the result was a garbled, high-pitched whimper that immediately drew Malistaire's attention to her prone and shaking form. A pang of guilt thrummed through his chest, though he wasn't sure why— he had given up feelings, and his humanity, when he'd been cursed with living death. But her tears stirred something deep inside. And he wished, with all of his might, that he could do something— anything— to make her sad mouth smile once more.

So he stopped all movement and gathered her in his arms, stroking her face and hair as he tried to calm her. "Come now," he insisted, dropping his voice to a whisper as he gently brushed the tears from her face. "There is nothing to be—"

"I'm not afraid of you," she hissed, though her eyes gave her away as a fresh flow of tears rushed forth from the seemingly-endless basin of sorrow in her heart. "You're a coward— a murderer without morals, whose only concern is for himself!"

"I didn't mean to—"

"Don't claim to _love_ me," she spat, as though the words tasted bad. "You just love control, how good it feels to inflict pain and suffering on your fellow man. But you're hardly a man— in fact, you're not a man at all_. _You're a corpse, and corpses are_ incapable_ of love."

She tried to break free, but his power over her was too strong; this only caused her to fight harder, but Malistaire just held her, not releasing his grip on her until she fell silent and still. He had finally broken her spirit, her will to survive, and yet, the victory felt hollow. Torturing prisoners had long been his only reprieve—guilt and fear were for humans with souls. But this was different, somehow, in that killing her was like killing the part of himself still capable of compassion.

Though too proud to admit it, he had never wanted to hurt her. Yes, he wanted her soul— needed it, to reclaim his humanity before he could die and rejoin Sylvia in the afterlife. But he couldn't simply take it from her; according to the fates, she had to give him her soul willingly, and torturing her into submission had seemed like the perfect plan, until he'd felt _it_—the guilt so intense that it had made him weak with sorrow.

_One does not simply walk in and expect to leave here alive. Where did they think they were sending her— Unicorn Way?_

Shadowsong was wrong about him—_ dead_ wrong. He was just trying to get things done, as quickly as possible, before the Order had a chance to pay him a visit, thus disrupting the entire plan. But she wouldn't understand that. He wasn't, as she'd insisted, a monster—a _murderer without morals_. So why, then, were those words more devastating than any wound she could ever inflict with her blade?

_She's right— I'm a soulless murder-machine, whose only purpose is to destroy that which is beautiful and alive. And everything I exist for is what she despises most._

He gazed down at her motionless form, a horrible lump forming in his throat. Shadowsong's dark hair was splayed around her head, like a black aura, and tears still glistened on her cheeks as though she were both alive and dead at once. He didn't want to think that he was capable of such violence, but he was, and it stabbed at him like the icy claws of a wraith, over and over again. It was obvious that Alhazred didn't have his apprentice's best interests at heart— if he had, Shadowsong never would have been sent on such a dangerous mission alone. And, to Malistaire, that meant that it was his job to keep her safe, even if he had to hurt her, in order to keep her from those who would do her further harm.

_I see the unseen, and it's all terrible. But such is the cruelty of unlife._


	10. pure

_high, like the stars use to be;_  
_ so high, she is standing above me-_

_ unreachable, _  
_just like the promise of paradise._

(xandria, _pure_)

For the next few days, Malistaire stood guard over Shadowsong's sleeping form, waiting for her vital signs to return to normal. So far, there had been no improvement, and he agonized over it constantly— hurting her had been the furthest thing from his mind, but he'd needed to subdue her, somehow. She had already become more involved than she should be, as his agenda had involved simply taking her soul and turning her against Alhazred— using her powers against the very cause that she fought so hard to protect. Loving her was simply a burden, albeit a welcome one, and he couldn't afford to let it interfere with his master plan.

All said and done, of course, he had certainly met his match with Shadowsong. She was cunning and intelligent, just like her master— no doubt Alhazred had taught her well— and she frustrated him, to no end. The more he pursued her, the more she pushed him away— yet, her cold aloofness only drew him to her still more, and he'd come to love the pain of her constant rejection. Determined as she may have been, he had surpassed her previously-insurmountable defenses… even if it had meant using underhanded means to lower them.

Undeath was a truly horrid fate— simply _existing, _in a state of perpetual purgatory, was just as unnatural as it was lonely. So he didn't understand why he wanted to turn Shadowsong into one of _them_— she was too beautiful, too alive, to merit such torture, but sacrifices had to be made somewhere. Loving her was torture in itself, but the pain was exquisite— she could torment him forever, for all he cared, if it meant that she would stay. But, as soon as he left her alone, she would surely run— return to Alhazred and his band of thugs, and disappear from all memory.

He eyed her for a minute, hoping to see her blink or move— _anything_, to confirm that she was alive. The madness of true love was overpowering and, at that moment, so was his affection for this fragile, exquisite creature— what sense did it make, to keep her here? Did he hope to repay Alhazred for a lifetime of exile, with her blood? As satisfying as it would be to watch her scream as the wraiths sucked her soul out, revenge was pointless now.

"Love me," he whispered, choking up as he kissed her cheek."Look not upon the monster I've become, but _through_ him— not with your eyes, but with your soul..."

The words were almost too painful to utter, and even thinking them hurt, for he knew that she never would— that much, she'd already made clear. But he didn't care. "Love me," he whispered again, almost pleadingly this time. "Love me. _Love me!_"

But Shadowsong remained perfectly still, her skin as cold and pale as the ravages of death itself, and Malistaire winced in pain as regret suddenly welled in his chest. He touched her cheek and bent to kiss her forehead, his eyes still dripping blood as he continued to plead with the fates. They had already taken his humanity, to a place from which it would not and could not return. But perhaps they would spare Shadowsong's life, if he could prove that he was not the beast that she claimed he was— the same one who had killed Sylvia, seven long years ago.

_Love me._

Originally, he'd wanted her to be afraid— it was supposed to keep her quiet and submissive, but that plan had backfired and made her even more brazen, more determined to foil every attempt he made to bring Wizard City to its knees. Brute force had been all that would stop her from getting in his way, but he hadn't expected that it would leave him so utterly torn; two very-different forces now fought for control of his being, and he felt divided, both in body and spirit.

_Love me_.

He closed his eyes and brushed his fingers across her still-warm cheek. A fresh flow of scarlet slithered from his eyes, splattering Shadowsong's face and neck with scarlet anguish. Love was, Sylvia had once said, a double-edged sword; and, while Shadowsong was a formidable swordswoman, it was the metaphorical dagger that truly cut into the remains of his soul like a knife through butter, even if it was all self-inflicted.

Sylvia was gone now— seven years dead and buried— and it was not out of disrespect to her memory that he'd fallen for this girl, hard. Shadowsong had been a prisoner, like any other, but her fearlessness and iron resolve had set her apart from the rest. He had once planned to use her, to bind her soul to his body and blackmail Alhazred into unequivocal surrender, but it hadn't worked out that way. Nothing he did ever went according to plan, though this was the first time that he couldn't blame the minions— or the Order, or anyone but himself— for messing it up.

In his mind, Shadowsong's vulnerability was what truly made her a thing of beauty. She would certainly accomplish great things with the Order, but _he_ could make her powerful—they would be a devastating combination: ruthless, immortal, and downright deadly; if she could ever learn to see him as more than just a _monster without _morals. And, while she may have been young and headstrong, Malistaire could easily see past her scathing threats and weapons to what lay hidden inside— a wounded child, made old before her time.

He stood vigilantly over her for the remainder of that day, and the next, hoping that she would, once again, show signs of life. Sorrow welled in his chest as he held her and folded her into his arms, a single crimson tear slipping down his cheek and landing on hers. For the first time in seven years, he was overcome with sadness and anger— at _her_, for getting under his skin; at the Order, for subjecting him to her frigid and feminine charms; but mostly at himself, for letting her down.

Alive or not, this girl would be the death of him.


	11. our solemn hour

_can't believe my eyes_-  
_ how can you be so blind?_  
_ is the heart of stone, no empathy inside?_

(within temptation, _our solemn hour_)

Once again, a cold and lonely night fell on Castle Dragonspyre. Malistaire sat in the throne-room, with Zarathax and a few of his more-intelligent henchmen, trying to figure out a way to combine spells— Beguile and Sacrifice, in particular— to restore Shadowsong's life _and_ keep her under his control.

"No _offenssssse_," Zarathax hissed calmly, sharpening one of his claws on a nearby slab of marble. "But this whole plan seems a bit _ridiculoussss_. Killing the girl was the entire reason for keeping her here, was it not? So why not just leave her to the ravages of eversleep?"

Malistaire sighed, resisting the urge to clock him. Zarathax and the wraiths wouldn't understand how important it was, that they revive her, and he'd be laughed out of the Spiral, if he told them why. His henchmen were simple creatures; how could he ever expect them to understand something as complex as the madness of love—the kind that wizards killed each other over? He hadn't given much thought to that part, but winning Shadowsong's affections would likely entail a great deal of bloodshed— especially since her loyalties lay with his nemesis. Nonetheless, he was prepared to fight Alhazred— and perhaps the entire Order— for her, and what a fight it would be!

"It's just that… I have _uses_ for her, you see. But that's none of your business— just figure out how to combine the enchantments, and leave the girl to me."

With that, he left them to their plotting and went to fetch Shadowsong's body from its place in his secret underground lair. No one knew of its existence, except her— he didn't trust his own minions to keep its location a secret, and yet he had told her everything, knowing full-well that she'd likely disclose it all to her master. Rather, that's what she would have done, had she survived the loss of her soul.

_That will change, soon enough. In time, she'll breathe again… and her soul will be mine._

As with any spell, of course, there was a slight chance that it would fail— she could go rogue, steal his powers or, worst-case scenario, be completely immune to the effects. The last two options were highly unlikely, as necromancy was a more-evolved form of magic than basic sorcery, but Shadowsong was full of surprises, constantly pulling new tricks from her seemingly-endless repertoire. Unlike his own abilities, the scope of her power knew no boundaries, and it both intrigued and terrified him at once.

Moments later, he arrived in his secret room, where Shadowsong's body lay atop the wyrm-crowned bed. Even in death, she looked alive; her lips were still red, soft and plump against the luminescent backdrop of her skin— perhaps she had merely feigned sleep, to avoid what she knew was coming. But she remained cold and motionless, like a marble statuette— her eyes had lost their sparkle, and the sight was almost soul-crushing. Rather, it _would_ have been, if he'd had a soul.

Just then, he had an idea. If he was the master of death, then why couldn't he just combine the spells himself? He didn't trust the minions to do it properly— they were too stupid to figure out the right combination of runes and such. If he wanted it done right, he'd have to take matters into his own hands.

_And why shouldn't I? They don't call me the Necromaster for nothing, after all._

He leaned over and brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, studying her intently for a moment before planting a cold kiss on her forehead. He could bring her back, if he tried hard enough—casting Beguile would bind them, and he could finally claim her as his own. Yes, it could end badly… losing his magical abilities would be less than ideal, but still preferable to an eternity of loneliness.

_Free her soul from the bondage of time and space— cast out the shadows of death, and restore to life the one who sleepeth eternal._

A few moments passed, with no indication that the plan had worked. Malistaire sighed, and was just beginning to worry that he'd gotten the words wrong when, all of a sudden, an eerie, grey light settled over the room. Shadowsong suddenly sat up straight— her eyes glowed red, like a Chimera's death-stare, and her head swivelled toward him in an otherworldly fashion.

"Kill," she hissed, with the fervour of a woman possessed. "_Kill the Master_."

So it had worked, after all! He had beaten the nearly-impossible odds, but it was still too early to call it a victory. "Good girl," he whispered back, and gently caressed her cheek before he took her hand and led her to the other side of the room, where a statue of a Krok adorned the otherwise-empty shelf. "Now, tell me… What does this remind you of?"

"Alhazred, the Master."

"Right," Malistaire continued, clasping her shoulders tightly— he could feel the blood pumping through her veins, restless and hungry for revenge, and it made him delirious. "And what did Alhazred do to you, my love?"

"He betrayed me."

"So, what are you going to do about it? Kill him?"

Shadowsong eyed him strangely, her face taking on a lifeless grey colour. "Why, of course," she replied, slowly and mechanically. "I want them _all_ dead."

Satisfied, he let go of her and quickly cast a Death aura over them. Victory was so close, now that he'd successfully corrupted Alhazred's apprentice— much to the chagrin of his human side. But she was his, and no one would ever come between them again.

"Now," he instructed. "Think about how you plan to destroy them—imagine yourself delivering the final blow as they fall to the ground, writhing like snakes in a lava-pit. Embrace the storm, my dear—grasp it, breathe it; let it hold you in its arms!"

Shadowsong's eyes closed and her body went limp, but she remained upright, held in place by the greyish beams emanating from his staff. But it wasn't over yet. "Embrace it," he commanded, concentrating all of his energy on breaking through her weakened consciousness. "Become the destruction you wish to inflict!"

At that moment, the Krok statue exploded into a million tiny pieces. Shadowsong slumped to the ground, completely drained of life once more, and Malistaire smirked horribly to himself. "Yes," he murmured aloud, marveling at his own sadistic genius. "This is just the beginning— Wizard City will fall, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. The Order will perish in the flames of death, and they'll never know—"

_That you and I were one._


	12. weakness in your eyes

_i can see weakness in your eyes;_  
_seems you need a hand-_  
_i'm taking your soul_

_and I can smell the fear in your heart-_  
_seems you need a hand:_  
_i'm taking your soul away._

(elysion, _weakness in your eyes_)

For the next few hours, Malistaire watched from a distance as Shadowsong slept peacefully on, abandoning his post only to check that she was still breathing; she would be waking up soon, and he didn't want to be anywhere near her when she did— if she had any memory of what had transpired during her brush with undeath, she would, no doubt, kill him where he stood. But she was his now— nothing could change that.

She awoke some hours later, shivering and disoriented, and he instantly rushed to her side. Understandably, she was frightened— he would have to do some serious damage control, if he was to be successful in calming her down.

"What is it, my dear?"

"So… cold."

Her entire body trembled so badly that she could barely speak, and he couldn't understand a word of it. Not knowing what better to do, he pulled her toward him and held her — she resisted at first, but eventually gave up and let herself fall into the embrace. Every fibre of her being _felt _alive in his arms, from the blood pulsing through her veins to the fresh tears that now sparkled on her cheeks— her eyes fluttered open and shut as he stroked her face and hair, and just looking at her was the most beautiful thing in the world

"Come now, sweetheart. You can't fight it forever."

As he said it, she glared at him and tried once more to pull herself free. "Oh yes, I can" she snapped bitterly. "I can, and I will. Oh, and I'm _not_ your sweetheart, your princess, your crypt-dove— whatever creepy names you insist on calling me… None of this makes any sense, so just sod off and let me go home."

She tried to disguise the quiver in her voice with a laugh, but Malistaire didn't buy it for a minute. It was too painfully obvious that she was caving— that her strength was fading, and that she'd all but lost the will to live; so beautiful to watch, and yet so terribly unfulfilling.

_If only it were that simple, my love._

"Could you _please _stop doing that? It's giving me the creeps."

He said nothing in reply, but picked her up and carried her through the narrow doorway into the tunnel that loomed ahead, like a giant dragons' mouth that threatened to swallow them both whole. Once more, the translucent grey beams from Malistaire's staff, which floated in the air before them, illuminated the path—the only light in the darkness, just as Shadowsong herself was the only beautiful, living thing that Castle Dragonspyre had seen in seven, long years.

Upon their return to the throne-room, most of the minions had vacated the premises; only Zarathax and a few others remained, and Malistaire figured that he could still put them to some use. He kept them around for a reason, and it wasn't to sit there and look pretty— that would be Shadowsong's new job, as the Mistress of Shadows.

"Gentlemen," he began, eyeing Zarathax carefully before turning to the wraiths. "We have made a great discovery this day— the girl-wizard lives, and I alone am the master of life and death!"

There were murmurs of appreciation, and Shadowsong scoffed her disapproval, but Malistaire ignored her and continued to address his flock. "Yes, she lives," he continued, setting her down at last. "And she is mine— as such, you _will _obey her orders, as you would my own. Lay so much as a finger on her, and I'll see to it that you suffer horribly. Consider this your warning."

He wrapped his arm possessively around her waist, at which she flinched and tried once more to break free. Even through the thick, black velvet of the eufiber dress, her skin was still cold— meaning that she hadn't fully recovered yet and, in her fragile state, wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight.

_She looks so beautiful in that dress. I bet a hundred-thousand gold coins that she'd be just as radiant in rags._

To the minions, he simply nodded and gestured at his new protégé. "Men," he commanded. "Ready the Great Hall. Make sure that everything is in its place, and in nothing less than impeccable condition; Zarathax, make sure they don't mess it up. And you, my dear Wizard Shadowsong— all you have to do is bring your beautiful self. I trust you can handle that?"

Her only reply was to roll her eyes in disgust, but she made no attempt to resist as a pair of wraiths appeared at her side and whisked her off to yet another strange room. This one was empty, save for a sculpted cherry dresser and vanity that was covered in baubles, including a hairbrush and mirror set made from bones— so twisted, but so beautiful.

One wraith picked up the brush and ran it through Shadowsong's long, dark hair, while the other inspected her dress for bloodstains or tears. "Ooh-de-lolly," it marvelled admiringly, running its skeletal fingers through her silky mane. "Such a pretty girl you are, poppet— just like Mistress Sylvia, in her day. Too long have we waited, to serve another so lovely as she, and you are just the one to take her place."

"Well, then," she replied, her eyes turning towards the marble floor. "Let's just say that I'm sorry to disappoint you."

They looked confused, but Shadowsong didn't engage them. Instead, she remained silent until they had finished making her over, at which point Zarathax entered and eyed her searchingly. "Exquissssite," he sighed breathily, his clawed hand coming to rest on her hip. "You look ssstunning, my dear—almost good enough to eat, metaphorically-sssspeaking. Let's be on our way, shall we?"

Obediently, she stood and allowed them to lead her into the Great Hall, once again bound at the wrists. They shuffled, one by one— a wraith, Shadowsong, another wraith, and Zarathax at the rear— into a room with a large, oaken table, pristine white tiles, and Castle Dragonspyre banners on every wall. At the other end of the table was Malistaire himself, in a black and red velvet cloak and holding a goblet of strange, scarlet liquid— was it _blood?—_ in his hand.

_That's disgusting._

As expected, he rose to greet her and set his cup of mysterious, crimson goo on the table long enough to free her from the shackles the minions had bound her with. "Enchanté," he almost gushed, bowing as he kissed her hand. "Welcome, my dear, to my innermost sanctum— beautiful though it may be, it does not compare to you."


	13. so much life in dying

_hope in her hair,  
and her fingers borrow pity  
out of your heart._

_her eyes are staring right through you,_  
_and you can see yourself in them._

(lyriel, _autumntales_)

Like the rest of Castle Dragonspyre, Malistaire's private chambers were unbearably humid. Shadowsong sighed, mopping her brow with the sleeve of her velvet dress, which clung to her skin like a leech. It was a relentless and dizzying heat, but she felt the room turn cold as the Necromaster pulled her in close and gave her a peck on the cheek before turning his attention back to the minions.

"Men," he ordered, tossing the now-unused shackles to Zarathax. "You are no more needed here— quickly, take your leave and let us be."

The minions did as they were told and hastily made their exit, leaving Malistaire and Shadowsong alone together, for the first time since her return to the castle. She refused to make eye-contact— even looking at him was like a thousand wraiths sucking the life-force from her body, and she trembled profusely. She didn't know what he was going to do to her, now that he had her isolated and under his control, except that it would likely be cruel, unpredictable—

A_nd creepy. It'll definitely be creepy. _

After an awkward silence, he finally slid an arm around her waist and guided her towards a chair to his right— not knowing what better to do, she sat on the crimson velvet cushion and stared at the tablecloth, trying not to think about what was happening. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded, just as she had in the secret chamber some days earlier. "Whatever it is that you want from me, I can't give it to you, so please— let me go."

"Pity," was his only reply as he resumed his spot at the oversized table. "If you must know, your charming, little games are wearing rather thin, my dear. Just accept that it's over— that you, your life, and your soul, are now mine, and that this is how it was meant to be."

Their eyes locked, and he tilted her chin forward— her skin was warm and soft, unlike his own, and he could feel the life still coursing through her veins. "It's only a matter of time," he insisted, relishing the sensation as she shuddered uncontrollably— her mind could fight him all it wanted, but her other senses betrayed her. Demanding her unequivocal surrender, both physical and mental, would soon be easy enough. "There is no way around it, so embrace fate… and your inner darkness."

"Not a chance," she retorted, pulling her hand away and once again staring at the floor. "I simply carry out the tasks for which I have been chosen. And yet, you mock me, though I do not lack the moral fibers that separate my kind from yours."

"True," he replied, with a sultry sort-of laugh. "Or so, you say. We _both _kill people, my dear—and yet, you imply that _you_ are my moral superior, simply because you adhere so strictly to this code of yours? Please… At least _I_ don't pretend to be a saint in all of this."

That was the only major difference between them and, ultimately, it was also the deal-breaker. While Shadowsong's self-imposed code of conduct prevented her from taking innocent lives, Malistaire killed at will and often on a whim; to date, his reign over Castle Dragonspyre had been one of terror, and his legacy as a corrupt and self-serving monarch had rendered his delusions of romantic grandeur all but impossible.

"You see," he went on. "I may be a soulless beast, but I don't lie about it. I make no apologies for what I am, and neither should you. So stop pretending you're an angel— to be quite honest with you, I find your lack of honesty quite sickening."

"Really? Well, I find _you _sickening."

He touched her hair, and Shadowsong cringed at the deathly chill of his fingers as they brushed her neck. She would need every ounce of strength she had, to avoid succumbing to his power— he was a gifted manipulator, and would stop at nothing to keep her under his thumb; therefore, she would need to conserve her energy and fight only as she needed to; this meant that she had to follow orders exactly, or hope that he didn't pick up on the slight she'd just made.

"Exactly, and that's why… what did you just say?"

"Nothing important— just that the feeling's mutual."

There was a moment of silence, and Shadowsong lifted her eyes to the ceiling in quiet prayer— he hadn't been paying enough attention to catch the insult, or simply didn't care to punish her for it. Either way, she wasn't about to become another player in his twisted game; she would keep the kingball in her court, for as long as she could, and he wouldn't stand a chance when the Order finally came for them both.

Malistaire watched her for a moment, as though looking for an opening to seduce her— if she could help it, he'd never find one. Never again would he slip through the cracks in her defenses, though it was becoming harder by the minute to keep herself together. Never had anyone pursued her so relentlessly— at her age, or approximate age, she was entirely new to this sort of thing, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep resisting.

He stood and offered his hand to her. Without thinking, she took it and let him guide her to the middle of the white-tiled floor, where the sounds of an invisible orchestra seemed to fill the room almost instantly. She wasn't sure why she was letting him do this— she should have known better, but resistance was beyond futile.

_The only way to rid yourself of temptation is to yield to it— so yield, my dear._

He motioned for her to step forward, which she did— it seemed as though her legs were moving independently of her, that she lacked control over her body and the will to resist whatever he was doing. How had she gone from not allowing him anywhere near her to being a subservient victim, in so short a time? There was no question that he was controlling her mind, though she didn't understand how.

For a moment, the room seemed to spin. It slowly twisted into a grey blur of nothingness, only to return to normal just as quickly, and Shadowsong felt as though her eyes were rattling around inside her skull. She wobbled precariously to one side, as though about to faint, and that was when she heard the words.

_Good girl. Now, come into my world._


	14. my only star

_just for tonight I'll be in your dreams-_  
_then I'll exist only in the star streams;_  
_remember me as you look at the sky-_  
_as time goes by._

(amberian dawn, _my only star_)

There was a flash, an explosion of grey light, and Shadowsong saw that she was now hovering in the air and looking down at herself from several hundred feet above the ground. Of course, she was confused until she felt the familiar touch of Malistaire's hand on her back, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist as they bobbed through the air. Naturally, she was also a bit frightened, and quickly gripped onto his shoulders for support, but he kept his arm where it was and guided her as they headed toward the stars.

"Erm," she stumbled awkwardly. "What in the Spiral do you think you're doing? Put me down!"

In response, Malistaire shook his head and turned his gaze back to the deep-purple sky. He occasionally turned to look at her— more like _through_ her, with that creepy, vacant stare that she'd come to recognize. And, with it, came the usual prickle of fear, since it meant that he was planning some nefarious deed, at her expense.

_But it's so beautiful. _She heard it in the back of her head again, meaning that she was the only one he'd intended to hear it. _You're so beautiful_.

Just then, a sudden rush of cold enveloped them, and she instinctively pressed her body into his for warmth, every hair standing on end. "I've been patient," she demanded. "But I'm not okay with falling out of the sky and breaking every bone in my body on the way down. So I'll ask one more time—_ put me down_."

_It's not that simple, my crypt-dove. For starters, I'm not keeping us up here._

She looked to him for further explanation, but he had already turned away. "Wait," she exclaimed, incredulous. "You mean _I'm_ the one who… No, that's just not possible. Living people can't fly without mounts!"

_No,_ he replied, still inside her head. _They can't, but __**you**__ can. You are powerful— much more so than those fools in Krokotopia give you credit for. So much talent, so much wasted potential… It sickens me. _

Still confused, Shadowsong pondered the words for a moment. If she could levitate, there was no knowing what other powers she had— earthly fears didn't seem to matter here, wherever _here _was.

"So," she ventured, not quite sure what she was doing, or how she was doing it. "If I can float through the sky like you, does that mean that I can talk through your mind, too?

_If you believe in it, then you will become it._

"Is that a _yes_, then?"

_Magic does not abide by natural laws, and neither do you._

"I see," she stammered, trying to contain her shock as they drifted higher still. Wave after wave of nausea rolled through her, each one crushing her stomach beneath its weight, like a tsunami. "You mean—"

_Like this?_

As she said it, his cold, dark eyes seemed to suddenly come alight. _Yes, _he answered back. _Good girl. There is no shame in embracing your power for what it is. Now, close your eyes…_

She did as she was told, and squeezed her eyelids tightly shut. He released his grip on her waist and, instead of falling, she remained in the air for several minutes before beginning her descent; her body drifted to the ground in a lazy spiral, floating like a feather until she landed in his arms, weightless and without a sound.

"Now, you have seen," he finally whispered aloud. "The Order has raised you to be fearful of your abilities, but fear is for the weak—for _mortal _men, with souls. You must not believe the lies they've told you."

He carried her back over to the oversized wooden table, studying her face carefully as he lay her down atop the red velvet cloth. "You were born for greatness," he went on, stroking her cheek affectionately. "For power, strength, and favour—such things are desired by all, attained by none. And I will give them to you, but you must first learn to free yourself from the constraints of mortal life, and embrace that which lies beyond the blinding light of day."

In response, Shadowsong shook her head and propped herself up on her elbows, daring herself to look at him. "I'm afraid that's impossible," she replied, not caring whether or not she'd be punished for her insolence. "No one can be both powerful and just, for it is human nature to abuse one's strengths and render all virtue vice. If you don't believe me, just look in the mirror and tell me that you have not abused your position."

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment, and Malistaire was unsure of how to answer. Ever since the taking of Castle Dragonspyre by force, seven years ago, he had routinely abused his power— ending lives, inflicting terrible pain, resurrecting dead prisoners, only to kill them again moments later… it was all in a day's work. He didn't consider it an abuse of power— in his mind, it was just a means of asserting his own authority. But she had a point that, although it shouldn't have, rattled him to the core.

"You aren't wrong," he answered. "But according to your theory, my sweet, vice can also become virtue. Therefore, even the darkest things can still be… _beautiful._"

He drew a sharp breath and swallowed, nearly choking on the last word as his eyes drank her in. She _was _beautiful, and he wished that he had killed her— the night he'd learned of her existence, or during her show of heroism in the battle-ring—before she'd had the chance to worm her way into his affections. But, as much as it hurt, he found solace in loving her— just looking at her was enough to numb the pain of knowing that she would never return his devotion.

"No, they can't. And don't look at me like that— it's _creepy_."

Of course, this only encouraged him. "No, it isn't," he insisted, almost mockingly. "I am what you fear, sweet girl— the unequivocal surrender that so few live to speak of. But you need only worry that to deny me—_us_— is to deny yourself that which has always eluded you."

Almost instantly, Shadowsong's face fell, and Malistaire was suddenly wracked with guilt once more. He knew better than to bring feelings into this already-messy equation— those were a mortal burden, and did not concern him. She was still technically a prisoner, just like the rest of them; he could kill her now, and spare himself the pain of her willful departure, but this would ensure her compliance… and her loyalty.

"No," she replied stiffly. "Your so-called _love_ is for the weak-willed, and I won't sell my soul for earthly pleasures. She is a fickle mistress, but only serves to bring a lifetime of pain— you, of all people, should know that."

Suddenly, her words made sense, as Sylvia's face floated into his mind. They'd fallen hard for each other, and quickly, despite objections from Sylvia's father; Oliver Lifemender had gone as far as to claim that the entire Drake clan was cursed, that associating with him and Cyrus was a death-wish for his pretty, young daughter. In the end, it _had _been a death-wish— and it would be for Shadowsong, too, if she ever let go of her resentment and let him into her heart.

_Well, so much for not bringing feelings into this._

Shadowsong was right, again. Love was only ever painful, but it— and every terrible, crushing second of agony— was always worth it. He hated her for it, for everything, but trying to give her up would be harder than anything he'd ever done.

"Fine and well, my dear, but only the weak are not lonely."

"Wait just a minute. Did you just call me _weak_?"

For a second, she stopped moving and turned to look at him. A warning glance though it was, it still felt perfect— like she could truly _see _him, with more than just her eyes. She was a lot like Sylvia, innocent and beautiful; her inner warmth and gentleness were hidden beneath a prickly exterior, but he would pull apart the thorns to reach the rose inside— her heart, the ultimate prize. Surely, torture was its own reward.

"No, my dear… But come into my world, and you _will_ be."

"What?" she snapped, almost disbelievingly, as she rolled her eyes. "Don't you dare touch me, you heartless monster, or I'll—"

It was obvious that she didn't appreciate his forwardness, but he didn't care, and cut neatly through her words with all the precision of a blade. "Milady, please," he insisted sharply, biting back the sob that bubbled in his throat. "You must understand that _heartlessness _and _soullessness _are two very-different afflictions. Though my soul is dead, my body lives on, and I am still more than capable of loving you."

"Right, I get that. But can't you just make it stop, or something?"

"If only it were so simple," he replied, gently stroking her cheek. "But, even if I could bring myself to stop loving you, my dear… _Why would I_?"


	15. angelheart

_goodbye, my leading hand-_  
_remain in memories, _  
_and hide those tears for me;_

_as clear as it can be-_  
_my angel born, my prophecy._

(gwyllion, _angelheart_)

Before Shadowsong had a chance to reply, Malistaire cupped her face in his outstretched hand and tilted her chin upward for a kiss. She tried to pull away_—_ none of it made any sense, though she found herself held in place by his cold, dark eyes. But something was different— there was warmth in his gaze this time, and he seemed to stare straight into her soul when he looked at her. No one had ever looked at her that way before, and she knew then that she was definitely on the losing end of these _intense negotiations._

"By the Spiral!" she snapped, outraged. "This is the height of all rudeness, milord! What in Celestia's name d'you think you're doing to me?"

In response, he simply stroked her hair and rested his free hand on her waist, his eyes barely a breath away from her own. "It's no concern of yours, my love," he answered, his voice full of adoration and longing. "I'm just taking what's rightfully mine."

Unimpressed, Shadowsong glared at him with every ounce of anger she could muster. "In case you haven't noticed," she snapped. "I can't stand you. You're the most pitiful, pathetic excuse for life— or _un_life— that I've ever had the misfortune of encountering, and I'd rather throw myself into the Pit of Judgment than spend the rest of my life staring death in the face."

"It's far too late for that, my dear. You belong to me, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it, but accept your destiny for what it is."

"Codswallop!" she cried, the anger in her boiling to a fever pitch. "You're _afraid _of me, aren't you? That's the reason for all of the torture, the illusions, for all of... _this!_"

"Afraid of _you_?" he scoffed, with a cold, arrogant laugh that didn't quite disguise the quiver in his voice. "My dear, I'll have you know that I fear nothing— except, perhaps, overgrown spider-monkeys, with teeth for wings. And we all know that those don't exist, just as fear itself does not exist in my world."

"Must a codpiece blabber so?"

His eyes flashed with anger, and he narrowed them at her as she took a few steps backward. "Silly girl," he whispered mockingly. "You underestimate me, my little death-flower, and it will be your undoing. I'd hate to take your soul again, but you aren't leaving me much choice."

"You did what? _How dare you!_"

Once again, Malistaire realized that he'd given himself up. He hadn't planned to tell her that part yet, but he had left himself no choice— and something inside nagged at him. He couldn't lie to her, even if it meant that she would probably hate him even more than she already did.

"Yes, I took your soul. Rather, I tried to— but rest assured that it was in the safest of hands."

Unfortunately, his attempt to calm her couldn't dissuade her apparent rage. "Coward," she spat angrily, drawing her sword from its sheath. "Nothing's bloody well sacred to you, is it? Touch me again, and I'll slice your entire bloody arm off— both of them, actually— and I'll enjoy every moment of it! Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to gut you with my bare hands."

Ignoring the insult, Malistaire reached for her hand, just as she swung her sword at him— the blade ricocheted off the chandelier and clipped him in the face, leaving a gaping wound beneath his left eye. He suppressed a scream, and she gasped aloud as blood spurted forth, splattering her face and neck with unsightly globs of dark-red goo, not unlike the stuff in the glass he'd been holding earlier.

"How _dare _you!" he roared, his eyes blazing with the same, murderous fury she'd seen many times in the torture chamber. "Stupid child— you'll pay for that."

"So kill me, and be done with it, would you? If it means you'll leave me alone, I can't say I'm too broken-up about it."

"Oh, no," he hissed, lifting her off the ground by only her neck. "You're not getting off that easily, _princess_— as much as I'd love to pull your heart out through your throat, I couldn't bring myself to get rid of a perfectly-good decoration. If you weren't so pretty, then— well, let's just say that things would be _very_ different."

Once again, Shadowsong felt a shift in energy. She sensed that, deep down, he'd already come to the realization that she'd never be his— that she was going to leave, no matter what, and that lashing out at her was his way of trying to pretend that he wasn't hurting. She didn't buy it— the darkness in his soul was all-consuming and, unless she could manipulate it to her advantage, it would devour them both. But she was stronger, and it wouldn't overtake her without her consent.

"Oh, please," she growled, as his fingers branded themselves onto her neck. "Unlike you, I do not fear loss or pain— therefore, you aren't hurting me with your little games. So put me down, for Celestia's sake."

Unexpectedly, he nodded at her and obeyed, setting her gently back on the ground. Relieved, she took a moment to catch her breath before re-sheathing her sword and motioning for him to look at her. "Now," she insisted, firmly but calmly. "Let's have a look at that, shall we?"

When he didn't move, she carefully stepped forward and, wincing, tore a piece of fabric from the bottom of her dress. She held his face in one hand, while the other used the shimmering fabric to clean the cut and wipe away any excess blood— her touch hurt, but the pain was so beautiful that he wanted to hold onto it forever. He thought about kissing her again— it was all he wanted to do, but he knew that he shouldn't— at least not yet.

She slowly rubbed her hands together, and a strange, green light suddenly appeared between them. "I won't lie," she said, finally pausing to look at him. "This is probably going to hurt, worse than anything you've ever felt in your life— what with not having a soul and all. Just keep still, all right?"

The light between her hands glowed brightly, the colour of fresh ectoplasm, and she gently touched his cheek again— she hadn't been exaggerating. It burned horrendously, and he instinctively reached for her— her dress, her hair, whatever he could touch— to keep from falling over in pain. Surprisingly, she let him, and he was glad for it, as dropping to his knees would have certainly added insult to injury. But the young sorceress likely already knew that— anyone else would have milked every last bit of this torture, for what it was worth, but she was gentle and made no concerted effort to make the process any more painful and undignified than it needed to be.

"Hold still," she whispered reassuringly, pressing a hand over his chest for emphasis. "The worst part's over— I promise."

The words were so sincere that he believed them, knew that she wasn't trying to pull a fast one or make a mockery of him at his weakest. Her response was exactly what Sylvia's would have been— to heal, not harm, even if the other person had previously wounded her. And he had, both physically and emotionally. Yet, she hadn't laughed or sought revenge— she had shown him compassion, something that he was incapable of giving in return.

"Oh, my love," he sighed, barely able to suppress the sob welling in his throat. "You truly do have availing hands."


	16. cold kiss

_loving your living soul is just too easy;_  
_the power of love beats death-_  
_come and join eternity._

(amberian dawn, _cold kiss_)

After that, Malistaire didn't think twice before pulling Shadowsong close to him and covering her mouth with his. He needed to touch her, feel the life in her as he held her in silence, blood streaming down his cheeks and into her hair. Holding her made him feel like he had a soul again— that he was _alive_, for once, and that he had finally found a purpose for this living death.

_Perhaps there is no hope left for me. But she is everything that's beautiful and good, all that is right with the world. There is no life for her, within these walls… How unfair, to imprison such a free spirit. But the flower that blooms in captivity is protected, safe; a prisoner, but safe… and I love her. _

"I…Is that really what you think of me, or just another one of your mind-games?"

He bowed his head in silence and gently kissed her cheek before meeting her eyes. "Well," he said, recalling the speech she'd given him in the torture-chamber on the day she'd arrived. "That all depends on whether or not you want an honest answer. I could tell you _yes_, which might scare you a little, or…"

She shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and dropping her gaze to the floor. "Please," she insisted. "I'm a grown woman now— I can handle the truth. So that's what I want to hear, and I'll know if you're lying."

"Then the answer is yes— that _is _how I feel about you. Are you frightened?"

A few seconds passed, but she finally did answer. "No," she replied, her breath seeming to catch in her throat. "I'm not scared of anything now— not even death, for it has become like an old friend to me. It's just that I feel... empty, like a corpse, only living."

"And what is it that causes you pain, my little death-flower?"

She hesitated for a moment, then cleared her throat and swallowed hard. "This," she responded calmly. "All of it— the torture, decay, desecration... Knowing that I may die here and never return home— that I'll never see Alhazred or the others again. They're the only family I've ever known, and knowing that I can't be near them is the loneliest place I've ever been.

Her voice trembled slightly, and Malistaire felt his own heart breaking as he noticed the tears forming in her eyes. "How terrible, my love," he replied, hoping that he didn't sound like he was mocking her. "Were it so simple, it would give me great joy to see you smile again. But it's not that easy, sweet girl— it never is."

"Well," she added, fiddling with the hilt of her sword as she composed herself. "I have an idea... If you can return me home safely, then… then I'll be yours for the night. _Love me_, however you will."

Malistaire listened carefully to her words, a terrible pain forming in his chest as he agonized over whether or not it was reasonable to accept her suggestion. If he did, he would have to let her leave him, return her to Alhazred, with whom she rightfully belonged, but she would be his— even if just for the night.

After much deliberation, he finally agreed. "Yes," he replied, almost mournfully. "Anything you ask is yours— even your freedom, if that is truly what you desire."

Shadowsong tossed her head, keeping her hand on the sword as she laid out her ground-rules. "So be it," she said. "In that case, I will be yours until first light. But, in return, you are not to harm Alhazred, or any other members of the Order, should they come for me— now, or ever; you will leave us in peace, as I will leave you be when this is over. Failing that, our contract is null and void, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life… or _unlife_. Whatever you call it."

_All shall love her, and despair._

She drove a hard bargain, but Malistaire didn't give it another thought— as much as he despised the Order, and everything they stood for, he would leave the lot of them to their own devices if it meant that Shadowsong would finally submit to him, without fear, even if it was just for the night.

"Consider it done."

"Good," she replied, dropping her usual curt tone in favour of a warmer one. "In that case, we have a deal, milord— now, what would you have me do?"

Without a word, he grasped her hips and pulled her into a desperate, possessive kiss. To his surprise, she didn't flinch or pull away, but allowed herself to fall forward into the embrace— she fit so perfectly in his arms, that the idea of giving her up was too painful to entertain. He couldn't afford to lose control now, but he found himself coming undone as her fingers brushed his cheek— she may not have wanted to love or be loved, but she couldn't stop him from loving her so madly that it hurt.

_Love me._


	17. sunrise

_warm my soul and melt the ice of my heart-_  
_melt the snow which covers up my broken chest;_

_your heart is frozen, longing for sunrise to melt the ice-_  
_watching the moonlight, waiting for sunrise_  
_to bring the light into night._

(amberian dawn, _sunrise_)

Whether she knew it or not, Shadowsong was a superb actress— she played the role so convincingly that Malistaire nearly forgot that there was even a role to play. She showed no signs of fear or revulsion, but instead melted into every touch, every kiss, as though it were her first. He tilted her chin upward and, as their lips touched, tried to concentrate on committing her to memory— her eyes, her skin, her warm, satiny tongue… the taste of sorrow, and her name, all preserved in his mind forever.

"My beautiful Shadowsong, star of the Spyre… Forget this absurd contract, my dear. If I may, I don't think it makes any sense, and it's creepy; there's no reason not to let me love you. You are capable of it— you've already proven that, so _let go. _Just _love me, _like I know you can_._"

She nodded, but didn't say a word until after she'd broken the kiss. "I can't," she repeated, though comfortingly this time. "And, even if I could, I wouldn't, because I walk another path. If things were different, then…"

Trailing off midsentence, she pulled away, her lips stained in the unmistakeable red tears of undeath. She touched her face, then his, before brushing away the drops of blood that still fell from his eyes. "There is no shame in weakness," she said, pausing to plant a kiss on his cheek, which was colder than a grave by now. "We are flawed creatures, you and me both— it's all part of being alive, even if not completely."

She leaned over and kissed each of his eyelids— a move that reminded him of just how innocent, how untainted, she still was— and her lips came away slick with blood. The tears came even easier after that, silently slipping downward until they splattered her face and neck like ruby rain on hallowed ground— a hollow and desolate beauty, but beauty nonetheless.

"Please," he whispered, his voice nearly cracking under the weight of the sob bubbling in his throat. "You are the only end to this horrible curse of a half-life... and, if you won't stay, then I want you to take it. Kill me, and bury me in a grave so dark that no rain will ever penetrate its filth, for no other will ever look upon this death-mask with anything other than utter revulsion."

But Shadowsong stood her ground, her eyes softening as she pressed her body closer to his. "Know this," she whispered gently, her fingers brushing his cheek again. "I do not fear you, nor do I believe that anyone is beyond redemption— the true distortion lies within your soul."

With her hand in his, hearing those words broke his heart all over again. She was so beautiful, and it hurt to hear her speak such words— but alas, he knew that she was right. "So be it, then," he answered, bowing his head so that she wouldn't see the blood-tears that flowed anew. "But, if you must go, then I want to hold onto this moment for the rest of my wretched half-life. And I want you to remember it— remember _me_; not as a monster, but as a man who loved you, with all of his heart."

He took her hand and softly kissed her fingertips— they were warm and soft, something more than human, and he wanted to hold her like that forever. He brushed his lips over hers, and felt her tremble beneath him— just a slight shiver, but still the most perfect thing he had ever felt; it was like the ice inside his soul was melting, the darkness dissipating into what had once been _real_.

"Please, don't leave me…"

For a moment, it seemed— in his mind, at least— that she hesitated, before shaking her head. "I must," she repeated, her voice drawing attention to how alone they were, in the vastness of the Great Spyre. "My calling in life is far different than your plan for me— this is but a deviation from my path, and I mustn't again stray from what I have been chosen to do."

She bowed her head, low enough that her hair covered her eyes. Wordlessly, he brushed the strands from her face and covered her mouth with his, kissing her until neither of them could breathe. He didn't understand why she wouldn't just stay— the decision seemed so obvious to him, especially when he knew that she was lonely and unsure of whether or not she was cut out for the cause.

_This isn't happening. It can't be— not now._

But it was happening. He, the overlord of death and supreme ruler of the underworld, was being torn apart by love— by this beautiful girl, whose soul was just as lovely as her physical form. He couldn't, didn't want to hurt her; every tear she'd cried thus far was a scythe in his heart, filling it with that same, paralyzing ache as when he'd lost Sylvia, and the thought of their impending separation felt exactly the same.

_Don't go—I need you._

As he said this, she turned her gaze to the floor. "For once," she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor. "You do not lie. The words are, indeed, genuine, but mere flattery will not compel me to accept your advances. Your place is not my place, milord."

In that moment, Malistaire was unsure of how to respond. Shadowsong was right, again— she belonged in a different world, the land of the living, where all could worship her and gaze upon her pretty, green eyes. Not here, in a place where all was dark and the aroma of burning flesh lingered— a slice of hell, as it were— and it would be even darker without her.

"Allow me to convince you otherwise."

Though he didn't want to admit it at first, Malistaire realized that, though Shadowsong was finally under his control, he was the one in a compromising position this time. Loving her meant being vulnerable— tearing open old wounds and giving her the power to completely ruin him; and yet, he didn't mind. If anyone was going to bring him to his knees, then it may as well be the girl he loved more than even life, or _unlife_, itself.

_Be still, my heart._

One look at her— her beautiful face, emerald eyes, the rise and fall of her chest against his— was all it took. A single tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another, and another, until he couldn't hold back anymore and broke down completely. He didn't want her to see this— not now; and yet, he couldn't make it stop.

She glanced up at him, her eyes seeming to soften as she took his hand and held him against her smaller frame. "By the Spiral," she whispered, her voice barely a breath in the darkness. "Something's happened. You're… you're not cold. And the tears… _they're real_."

Surely enough, she touched his face and let her hand come away slick with real tears— not blood, as was typical of undeath. He hadn't thought it possible, but he was alive at last— truly alive, for something about her had restored what was left of his soul to a human state. For once, they belonged in the same world, the world of the living— and he realized that, as much as he wanted to keep her here, he could never let her rot in the ether universe. She deserved better than that, and he knew that he needed to let her go.

"Shadowsong, I release you."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Shadowsong rolled over and eyed him confusedly, her head cocked to the side like an Orthrus awaiting its next command. "Hold on a moment," she cut in, glancing warily around the room. "It's not sunrise yet— you're not going back on your word, are you?"

In response, he could only shake his head and sigh mournfully. The damage was done— he couldn't take it back now, or she would surely make him pay. "Never," he tried to reassure her, his voice cracking under the weight of each word. "In the morning, I will return you to your master, and you must make no attempt to return here. I want you to run away, sweet girl— forgive me, and forget the horrors you have seen."

She nodded her understanding and turned to face him once more. "Very well," she answered, pursing her ruby lips. "But do not feel the need to spare me, for I am afraid of nothing— even Death itself has no hold over me. Allow me to show you courage, in the face of fear…"

With that, she stepped forward— she recoiled slightly at first, but she quickly recovered her courage and kissed him, hard. Without thinking, he kissed her back, covering her mouth with his as the tears rained down. He wished that the moment would never end, that he could give up every, last sliver of humanity to stop time; instead, he swallowed hard and tried to focus how good it felt to hold her as her lips branded themselves onto his— far more pleasant than a burn, but just as painful.

_Forgive me, my love— please, forgive me._

As the minutes wore on, he found it harder and harder to keep himself together— he wanted her to remember this moment, to be the standard by which she judged _everyone _in the future. At least she had surrendered willingly— there was no telling what he'd have done, if she hadn't.

He wanted Shadowsong— _all _of her— and he was going to have her.


	18. my heart is broken

_and i will wander _  
_until the end of time,_  
_ half alive without you._

(evanescence, _my heart is broken_)

Malistaire awoke some hours later, covered in blood. Much of the previous night was now a blur, a fuzzy montage of photographs taken by a camera with a cracked lens through a broken window— except for Shadowsong, of course, who was now snoozing peacefully a few feet away, her perfect form tangled in the satin sheets and illuminated by shafts of golden light streaming through the stained-glass ceiling.

_Sunrise._

He didn't want to wake her— not before he held her, touched her face and breathed her in, just one more time. He watched her for a few moments, memorizing every contour of her body— the rise and fall of her chest as she slept, blissfully unaware; gently, he brought her mouth to his and kissed her one, last, painful time.

_Go now, my love— go, and be free at last._

A sob rippled through his chest, but he kept it in as he held her, the drops of blood twisting a cruel path down his cheeks and into her hair. Somehow, the whole moment just seemed right, blood and all— it _felt _right. Why couldn't she see that?

Just then, there was a loud _bang _from the adjoining room. It instantly roused Shadowsong, who quickly leapt up and scrambled for her armour; Malistaire joined her in the search for his dress robes. At that point, the only thing worse than seeing Alhazred's face as the group departed would be going through the motions underdressed for the occasion.

"Weren't expecting me, were you?" Alhazred's voice boomed, from the other side of the red velvet curtain that separated him and Shadowsong from the rest of the world. "Nonetheless, hurry up and show yourself. We've already won this war, and we won't hesitate to use force, if it's needed."

In response, Malistaire picked up Shadowsong and levitated them both across the room, landing in front of the elder Krok leader— who had, unsurprisingly, brought Merle, General Khaba, and several other high-profile members of the Order with him; that Alhazred could be pretty resourceful, at times, and he hated it. But what hurt most was how her face lit up at the sight of them— she was free, but he would ever remain a slave to her charms… and his own loneliness.

"No," he replied, wrapping an arm tightly around Shadowsong's waist and holding her against him— in response, she thrashed and writhed beneath him, fighting for control like a woman possessed. "You can have any other prisoner, Alhazred— take _all _of them, if you must. But Shadowsong is _mine_."

As he said this, she fought even harder, nearly breaking his nose with the back of her head. He loosened his grip on her momentarily, but didn't let go and held her even tighter as she struggled to free herself. "Let me go," she simmered, through gritted teeth, as tears streamed down her cheeks in silver sheets. "We had a deal, and I'll be damned if you lied to me! You'll _never _get away with this!"

On her word, Alhazred signaled the others, who raised their wands and began forming a defensive circle around them— he was definitely outnumbered. "Give it up, Malistaire," he ordered. "You're surrounded. Now surrender my apprentice, or be impaled upon the blade of Justice!"

In truth, Malistaire didn't care whether or not they killed him. To die at last would be a mercy, if he had to live for eternity without Shadowsong at his side— could they not see that such suffering would be the true punishment?

"Never," he retorted, loosening his grip on Shadowsong's body just enough, so that she could breathe normally again. "_I love her._"

At this revelation, the members of the Order dropped their weapons— they had not been expecting such an answer, and it showed in their faces. Wands and swords clattered to the ground, their bearers looking completely befuddled… except, of course, for Alhazred, who remained composed.

"Strange," the elder Krok replied. "If you love her— if you truly, madly love her— why would you force her into a life of suffering, and imprison her in the same darkness which tortures your own soul?"

Malistaire didn't answer, suddenly aware of Shadowsong's body against his— her breath, her heartbeat, and the gentle sobs that shook her entire frame; he was under her spell, and he knew it. But she did not belong to him, and never would. For a moment, the two men locked eyes and stared each other down in silence. But it was Alhazred who spoke first.

"If you love her, you'll let her go."

As much as it broke his heart to admit, Malistaire knew that Alhazred was right. Soullessness was a terrible and unnatural state, and Shadowsong deserved a fuller life than the misery that awaited her here. How was it possible, he wondered, for her— just like everything he had ever loved— to be taken from him so cruelly, and suddenly?

_This love kills slowly. Everything it touches turns to poison, withers like a flower in flames and dies, as do all things innocent and beautiful._

Finally, Alhazred raised his wand in the air and began to speak.

_Sift through silt, through layers of gray  
and grit, for hope amidst decay.  
Then, from the veil of death doth break  
and rise, o soul of Sylvia Drake._

As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, a ghostly green wisp flew from the tip of his wand and hovered in the air for a moment before turning into Sylvia Drake's body. Upon noticing the apparition, Malistaire turned his attention to it, and Shadowsong took advantage of the distraction to jab her elbow into his ribs, which forced him to release his grip on her. Without missing a step, Merle and General Khaba swooped in and stood protectively in front of her, like they were shielding her from death itself; for his part, Malistaire only stood in shocked silence, his eyes transfixed on Alhazred's face, which was illuminated in the eerie, green glow that still extended from the wand's tip.

"Sylvia! Talk to me, Sylvia— I'm so sorry, for everything!"

The spectre leered at him and he dropped to his knees at its feet, a broken man. "Sylvia," he sobbed, repeating her name as though it were life-support. "I'm sorry— I didn't mean to hurt you, to hurt anyone! Everything I've ever done to you—_for _you— has been out of _love! _Don't leave me!"

In response, Sylvia's green, ghostly form just bobbed in the air for a few moments before it reached out and took his hand in hers. "I forgive you," her voice whispered sweetly, as gentle as a newborn lamb. "But you hurt me, and I will not watch you do the same to this innocent child, when she does not belong to you."

She hovered in the air for a moment, before dissolving into a hideous, wraithlike figure. Its face was contorted so grotesquely that it no longer resembled a face at all, and the smoke kept twisting— writhing, until it twisted into Shadowsong's form… youthful, yet hardened. She looked as she had when he'd tried to take her soul— vacant, glassy eyes that glowed red as her head swivelled back and forth at inhuman angles.

"Oh, Malistaire… I'm in a better place. Come to me…"

_Oh, Sylvia... What have I done?_

The thought erupted from the deepest recesses of his mind, a blinding hurricane of pain, and the tears came easily after that— for Sylvia, for Shadowsong, and for the part of himself that had died on that awful day. He wondered if Shadowsong could hear each scream as it shook him to the core— could she convince her master to call off the torture-fest, or would she let him suffer in silent shame?

A few agonizing minutes passed. Malistaire's eyes were stained red and his mind hazy with anguish and regret. He collapsed to the ground in shame, barely able to hear what Alhazred was saying over the screaming voices in this head. He didn't want to hear any more, or remember what he'd done to deserve this. But, just when he thought he couldn't take any more, Shadowsong's voice penetrated the fog.

"No!" she cried, stepping between them and dropping to her knees at his side. "Alhazred, stop it! Not now— not like _this_."


	19. a demon's fate

_the shadows remain in the light of day;_  
_ on the wings of darkness, he'll retaliate-_  
_ he'll be falling from grace,_  
_ until the end of all his days._

(within temptation, _a demon's fate_)

"No! Not like this."

At Shadowsong's command, Alhazred coaxed the wisps of smoke back into his wand and Sylvia's ghost disappeared, just as quickly as it had come. "Now, you see," he admonished, dusting his hands on the corner of his robe. "Whether you force her hand or not is irrelevant, Malistaire; I will not allow my apprentice to give you her soul, and spend the rest of her natural lifespan in indescribable pain. She deserves to go free. And, if you love her as you say, then wouldn't you want the same for her?"

"You're right— she doesn't belong in the Ether World, but please… Let her remain here, that I might become _real _again._"_

As he said this, he sank further into the ground as fresh waves of blood rained down from both eyes. Humiliating though it was, he hoped that it would knock some sense into Shadowsong's head— into her heart; if this didn't prove that his love for her was real, then nothing would convince her of it. She was stubborn as hell— wearing her down had nearly done him in, but he'd eventually managed to subdue her; he would need to do it again, if he planned to make a case for his affections.

"There is no winner or loser in this war, Alhazred. Except _her_— she is the one with everything to lose, and she'll be the one who suffers most. She is my second chance, that I may atone for the terrible things I've done; I can give her what I couldn't give Sylvia. But you only care that you spite me with your ages-old vendetta!"

Alhazred scratched his chin and shook his head, as the other members of the Order looked on. "I don't take her out of spite," he replied. "I bear you no ill will, Malistaire; any vendetta you speak of is only in your mind. I take her because she does not wish to remain here—it is, and has always been, her choice. If she has changed her mind, and wishes to remain with you, then it will be done."

Both men looked to Shadowsong, whose green eyes were full of sadness. "Take me away from here," she whispered, staring pitifully at her master. "Far away, to where the seraphs sing, and where no darkness will penetrate the light..."

Malistaire took a step toward her, almost as though he felt compelled to, but she held up a hand to stop him. "Don't," she cautioned, her voice a dagger that froze him where he stood. "As per our agreement, you will leave us be. And do not seek me out, for I have been gone long before you destroyed everything pure in me."

Silence. Alhazred took her by the arm, and quickly eyed Merle and Khaba before turning around. "Very well, my dear," the elder Krok replied gently. "But what of the Necromaster— surely, something must be done about him, the one who nearly took your life away."

Without missing a beat, Shadowsong immediately understood what her master wanted her to do, and she had to make her decision. Yes, Malistaire _had _taken her soul, but did she have it in her to kill him— give him the bloody and unceremonious death that he so deserved?

_I could take his life, like he stole my innocence. But death seems too merciful— and why should I taint my sword, when such filth is unworthy of my blade? _

She wanted to kill him— it would both sate her thirst for his blood and show him a compassion that he hadn't shown her. Or she could let him live and continue existing in that sad state of eternal sorrow and unrest. She utterly despised him still— that much was known, and definitely an understatement— but, even in her bitterness, she was certainly above petty revenge.

A few minutes passed by, in an unearthly silence, as she made her way over to Malistaire's side of the room. "Tell me," she demanded, unsheathing her sword and pointing it at him. "Give me one, good reason I should show you any mercy."

He didn't reply right away, but peered up at her like a scared child. "I don't want your mercy," he answered, brushing off his cape as he stood. "I would never ask that of you, for I deserve none. But you are virtuous by nature— just as beautiful in spirit, as in body; you have shown me compassion, knowing full-well that I am incapable of returning the favour, and that is why… _Oh, my love."_

The last three words became a whisper as they left his lips, then he trailed off midsentence and kissed her, hard. All around, he could hear murmurs of shock and awe from the members of the Order— even a few of the minions had assembled in the doorway, to pull faces and make goggle-eyes at them from a distance, but Malistaire didn't care who was watching. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.

He held her face in both hands and stroked her cheeks, letting the warmth of her skin wash over him. When she touched his chest again, his heart ached with a terrible, ungodly pain that wormed through his entire body like gut-rot, and he broke down in tears— sorrow overwhelmed him, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing her forever.

Not knowing what better to do, a very-confused Shadowsong responded in kind. She felt strange, engaging in such a voracious display of affection, especially in front of her master and his men— it was inappropriate, and probably a little creepy. But, since she hadn't been the one to initiate it, she supposed that Alhazred would forgive her, for such unprofessional conduct.

As she broke the kiss, he opened his cape to reveal a silver dagger— the Deathedge glinted malevolently in the darkness as, without a word, he pulled it from its sheath and offered it to her. "Kill me," he pleaded, covering her hand with his and pressing the pointed tip directly against his heart. "If not for me, then for yourself— _end this suffering_, _for both of us_."


	20. like a rose on the grave of love

_your beauty heals, your beauty kills;_  
_and who would know better than i do?_

(xandria, _like a rose on the grave of love_)

Malistaire raised his arms in surrender, the sadness in his voice palpable as he moved to stroke her cheek again. "Now," he insisted, tilting her chin upward once more. "Don't be afraid— take your revenge, and we will both be free."

But Shadowsong didn't listen, dropping the Deathedge onto the tiled ground and kicking it over to Alhazred, who pocketed it. "I can't," she replied simply, one of her hands coming to rest just above his heart, where the knifepoint had been. "You should know well enough by now that I don't take innocent lives."

"If you think that I'm innocent of any evildoing, then you are quite sadly mistaken, my dear."

Once again, she just shook her head and gazed into his cold, black eyes. "I most certainly am not," she responded coolly, almost flippantly, as she touched her sword to the scar that it had made on his cheek. "Were there nothing good in you, I could have easily cut you into a thousand little pieces and thought nothing of it. I don't allow life to those unworthy of it."

He acknowledged her with a nod, trying to bite back tears as he held her gaze. Again, it was as though she were staring past him and into his heart— really _seeing _him, with so much more than just her eyes. If she could find the good in him, then it surely existed.

"Furthermore," she continued, slipping her sword back into its sheath for the time being. "You have proven yourself human to me; you are a flawed creature, as _real _as any living thing I've ever encountered. Were there nothing alive in you, I would simply dispose of you, as I did your minions in the torture chamber— dead men tell no tales, and a dead man certainly wouldn't feel _this._

Without any warning, she leaned forward and kissed him as hard as she possibly could. This time, she didn't care what anyone else might have made of it— they could think what they wanted, but she knew that it was the only way to prove his humanity.

Almost instantly, his entire body sprang to sudden life, and he kissed her back with every ounce of passion that he was capable of. She gasped, presumably from the cold shock of his mouth on hers, but she didn't pull away.

_Love me._

Malistaire knew that wanting her was selfish. Shadowsong didn't belong here— she was from another world, and remaining with him in this place would only make her miserable. But it didn't stop him from wanting her; if only he could make her sad mouth smile again, she might stay.

_I can't._

It wasn't her fault, for wanting to leave, or Alhazred's, for wanting to bring her home; the girl simply knew her place, and it was time for Malistaire to learn his. Alhazred was right: if he truly loved her, he would have to let her go and live out the rest of her days in peace. Not here, in eternal torment and suffering. He wanted to wait for a better time, one when he wasn't still reeling from the taste of her lips or the feel of her skin against his, but he needed to let her be free again.

_Shadowsong, I release you._

As he said it, she broke the kiss and nodded in silent understanding before taking Alhazred's arm and allowing him to steer her towards the portal Merle had opened near the door. The group formed a neat line— the Ravenwood professors, General Khaba and his men, Merle, Alhazred, and Shadowsong, in that order— each stepping through the shimmery opening to begin the long journey home at last.


	21. journey to the freedom

_you are my life,  
and i believe in your might;_  
_i'm reading on my heart  
the real dreams of my mind._

(setanera, _journey to the freedom_)

Malistaire watched the procession's exit, his heart aching more with each step she took. He wanted to follow her, hold her in his arms and beg her not to go. But it was too late now— Shadowsong had made her choice, and he would never see her again.

The minions all gathered around, perhaps to offer condolences to their now-inconsolable master, but he was having none of it. "Get out," he ordered, pointing to the door as tears began to fall. "Burn it! Burn it all, until all of Castle Dragonspyre is lost to history!"

When they had sufficiently busied themselves with setting fire to everything in the vicinity, Malistaire grabbed his staff and hurried through the dark passageway— the same one he'd once carried Shadowsong through— to his secret chamber, blinded by tears. The room seemed dimmer somehow— the flames were less bright now, and the piles of gemstones and gold didn't gleam like they used to. Without her, there was nothing beautiful left in his dark and lonely world— no reason left to exist.

_Love me._

He grabbed a nearby torch off the wall and, without thinking, set the entire room aflame. Everything— the sheets, the curtains… Even the air was still saturated with her sweet perfume, and memories of her consumed him, a heady and intoxicating swirl of raw anguish akin only to a scythe in his heart.

_Love me._

Suddenly, the dress in the corner caught his eye. He remembered how beautiful Shadowsong had looked in it, and the memories seared themselves into his mind like a burn. He held it in his arms for a moment, imagining how he'd held her in his arms only a short time ago, before throwing it, and himself, onto the pile. For a few moments, he lay amid the smoke and fire and _her_, and it was almost as though she were still in the room with him, curled up against his chest and trailing her fingers over his battle scars with a tenderness so beautiful that it made him want to cry. And, alone in the burning room, he finally allowed himself to break apart, like the fragile and bitter creature that he was. But not before he heard Shadowsong's voice in the back of his mind, almost like she had whispered the words into his ear.

_Dead men tell no tales, _he heard her say. _The living corpse does not burn by mortal hands. And a dead man certainly wouldn't feel this._

White-hot pain screamed through Malistaire's veins, followed by a sense of relief as he realized that his entire body was on fire. The scalding orange tongues licked their way across his face, his chest, and lower still, igniting every inch they touched. It was as though the fates had finally heard his cries for absolution, though he hadn't felt such a horrible sensation since before_ the curse_.

_Then that must make me… human._

Smoke filled the room, snuffed out the stars and anything else alive as it filled his lungs with its bitter truth. Malistaire closed his eyes and smiled to himself, his funeral pyre continuing to burn until crypt dust was all that remained.

E N D


End file.
